Saturday, March 23, 2013

Support Your Local Liquor Store

There’s a snug, skeletal sort of strip mall mostly filled with payday loans and empty stores supposedly haunted by the retail apparitions of grinning skulls and dancing bones.

In the corner, beyond the dead and decaying movie house but before the masseuse girls from Laos stands an iron barred door – the entrance to my favorite local liquor store.

I’ll buy another fifth of rye until I’m bone dry or as sober and straight as a rail road tie – and then I’ll go back to that dreaded strip mall where the ghosts make cat calls at old witches in shawls and where werewolves are known to creep and crawl.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Gimp of the Perverse

I recall those mirky days when I found myself a hostage of a totalitarian circus family in the unspeakably torrid swamps and pines of Texarkana.

I had been following up on the research of my nemesis Roscoe Sinclair, who had come close to the most tantalizing evidence of the skunk ape before running short of funds, sanity, and volunteers after the Japanese economic bubble collapsed in the late 1980's. A major partner with the Yakuza in many prominent American golf course real estate holdings, Roscoe fled various domestic debtors and focused intently upon exacting a cruel yet benevolent revenge upon me in Eastern Europe, though that is another story. 

In late 2002, I was mailed a bizarre clipping from a small town bi-monthly newspaper in northeastern Texas, which related a story that defied the most cyclopean semantics of the surreal - a bizarre tale involving a rash of skunk ape sightings cutting a broad but distinct pattern across the barren and mostly unpopulated hillsides of the region. I felt compelled to immediately find a flight to Texarkana, though I would mostly come to regard this as one of the more ill-advised decisions in my career - Rota Fortunae held a morbid destiny for me indeed.

I traveled deep into the most depraved districts of Dixie; hesitant until a despotic denizen of dentistry (a necessary root canal I had been needing could wait no longer) directed me to Crybaby Creek, a long since forgotten hamlet deep within the heart of Texarkana. I was warned of unnatural and weird rituals that occurred in Crybaby Creek under the annual harvest moon, and yet I ventured forth due to my undying and unfortunate drive to cross those thresholds that leave sane men sane. 

At a dilapidated truck stop, I encountered my own incarnation of the Weird Sisters - three garishly painted geriatric syphilitic prostitutes that forewarned of my Fate. This Fate, optimistically prophetic and yet horrific, will be withheld in the interests of dramatic license.

I delved deeper and deeper into the wilderness, praying that this Fate would be made material, not conceiving and not knowing how serious the repercussions would ultimately be. And then I met her - one of the three most devious females I have ever met; only matched by the dark-eyed Gypsy wench of Romania and the dastardly French Canadian whore that poisoned me in Montreal. 

Her name - Claret Samuels. I was seduced by her feminine wiles in a grand old fashion outside a notoriously haunted plantation that glowed a nauseating flourescent green under the right (or wrong) kind of moonlight. A frail redhead, Claret seemed to possess a preternaturally wordly persona that defied logic; a demon child that had somehow inherited ten thousand years of occult knowledge. 

I was utterly enthralled, though my initial and rational impression of Claret was that of a bulemic whore that may or may not have possessed what one might call a soul. Spellbound, I was tempted by her - venturing deeper into the swamps and undergoing sacrilegious rites that would cement an unholy matrimony amongst the eerily silent pines and dales of Texarkana. 

Just prior to our fetishistic consummation, I fled like a mad man - screaming and scrambling into those same foreboding woods naked and flecked with goat entrails. I was welcomed into the home of my eccentric carnival captors - a bizarre clan that included a tranvestite malcontent known amongst neighboring counties as the Gimp Clown. 

I spent unknown months there, tending mangy livestock and plotting various plans of escape. On a harsh and frost-bitten night, I scrambled into the wilderness and encountered the storied skunk ape which had served as my initial catalyst into this quagmire of an existentialist hell. 

I spent roughly four feral months in the wild, and had traumatic and violating reoccurring experiences with the aforementioned man-beast of Texarkana. These four months are described in fuller detail in my quasi-finished book; Hominid Horror of Honobia.

I had traveled roughly two hundred miles to the northwest, and found myself outside of a provincial fishbait store on a prominent lake in southeast Oklahoma. Rarely does a man find sanctuary only to find abject horror, and yet I experienced as much whenever my incredulous story was picked up by local police and newspapers. 

I discovered that that harlot Claret was the daughter of Lew Samuels, the cigar chomping patriarch of a Texarkana Dixiecrat political machine that had dominated local politics since long before the end of the second World War. 

I had learned from a Masonic whistleblower in New Jersey that this particular political machine found much of its power and influence through the same Cephida cult of human sacrifice and dark entheogenic entities that I had skirted in the darkest and dankest accursed jungles of Mexico. 

I found myself forced into a Satanic shotgun legal marriage with Claret, only to escape the confines of her family's Dixiecrat feudal empire by hitchhiking to Tulsa and catching a bus to Memphis, in lieu of receiving an advance for a Jersey Devil documentary for a Dutch television station.

Monday, March 18, 2013

Blog de Borgia Le Français & 日本語

The 10th result for a "France Japan" image search on Wikimedia Commons
Self translating is almost as ill-advised as self publishing but with the help of Bing Translator my blog is now available in French and Japanese.

Thursday, March 14, 2013

I Fell in Love with a Bee Bearder

We were two imperfect people in an imperfect world - a drunken sot and a bee bearding girl.

A strict sideshow code had postponed our romance and yet I persisted in pursuing this exotic queen who made me weak in the knees with her Africanized killer bees.

I was a circus accountant subsisting on cans of black eyed peas and hidden fees - my caste somewhere between dancing bears and Siamese pairs in a social system that was organized top-down from ringmaster to hungover clowns.

I was an unlikely lothario but our love came to fruition in those big top days of exploited dwarves and swallowed swords. She is long since gone but I will always be hexed by that beautiful girl and her flying insects.

Saturday, March 9, 2013

Alias Super Caligula Part IV: Mondo Super Caligula

The final chapter of Alias Super Caligula, and a conclusion largely inspired by an anecdote concerning a video store patron who confessed to finishing first and third during a group viewing of that seminal slice of 1980's cinema, Porky's.

Canada's #1 Grossing Film, Adjusted for Inflation

Cock plucking and gizzard sucking greeted my arrival at their nightly revival, where Ben Wa balls and crawfish crawls mocked the cornstalks until the duke of the dung heap was seen to creep - the lanky kingpin of sin from Bangkok to the Soviet Bloc.

I found myself goaded by garrotes and Cheshire gloats to march within the reign of the banana pepper locust domain. My desperate suggestion of a gland prix piqued the interest of the vile freak and his merry band of circus geeks.  

Our circle jerk spurred the thirst of the absurd as I finished first and then third, as Super Caligula proceeded to cop more feels than Carter has liver pills amongst his louse ridden shills. 

This sent the banana pepper locusts into a frenzy of frantic feeding, the resulting chaos rendering the flesh of Super Caligula into a gory jest – his perverse army reduced into a bleeding mess. 

Perhaps the gleam from a brain unseamed or a passing pipe dream, but from some vague place I heard the wailing moan of a ghostly trombone.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Moscow Mule

She was somewhat sweet but mostly ice cold and filled with booze, not unlike a Moscow Mule.

She associated with shiv artists and the cruel and the heartless but I'll never forget her red technicolor lips in a city filled with sickly yellow hues and necrotic shades of blue.

Saturday, March 2, 2013

Night People

Context: Conway, Arkansas 1997

I had cottoned to the compadres of my Kansan cocaine distributor, and in doing so had gained an unwholesome insight into the lurid insanities of a profession most unwelcome in its irregularities.

That same late winter night most dreary I dreamt of rock quarries teaming with Vaseline and awoke screaming within a scream, confessions of the lost souls of Saturn in a fractal pattern justified my hesitation and quantified my premature ejaculation. Further night terrors ensued, invoking the esoteric diction of my erotic fan fiction lubing the stiction for premarital emu friction.

I had enjoyed the patronage of a mad scientist with a cuckolding fetish, a position to which I had accustomed myself after a prolonged indebted servitude to a proto-feminist Amazonian cult to which I fathered a litter of Borgians. This particular Prometheus had funded my expeditions on his perverted conditions to which I had but little choice to acquiesce, he the groom of an exceptional gloom exacerbated by a bride of the choicest pride, a morbid Mennonite most malicious in her maladjusted mania.

Six months later I had found myself on the lam in the desert of New Mexico fleeing a Reptilian debt collector whenever the voice of the Devil himself appropriated my AM band with his Satanic soliloquy - namely an excerpt from the loathed apocrypha of the accursed Borgianomicon.

Yakuza Lounge Lizards
Several phobias from my previous life as a heavyset and ill-mannered Korean lesbian have admittedly contributed to my ancillary anxieties.

I died from a poisoning by shrimp at that dive famous for its chicken fried chicken gizzards and notorious for its pompadoured Yakuza lounge lizards.

Now breaded meat and karaoke give me the heebie jeebies and my aversion to seafood causes my palms to sweat at the mention of the mermaids of Fiji.