In the Mouth of Juarez

I enjoyed an impromptu and unexpected reunion with my primary hashish dealer from an admittedly hazy period of my life in which I allegedly bootlegged during the Third Indochina War. 

We drank a charming regional cocktail consisting of potato vodka and a smattering of grenadine garnished with a dead moth. This turned our conversation to that dreaded cocktail, “In the Mouth of Juarez”, which has dispersed many a rum shake.

A strong Mezcal is poured into a shot glass. Valium is then crushed up into the drink, with a splash of coconut juice.

I would suggest that harder to find variety which also incorporates the larvae of the Cephida centipede. When dried properly, the larvae cause a euphoric psychoactive rush that eventually dovetails into a mind-bending trip involving a barren, psychedelic moonscape crawling with arthropods.

I'm nostalgic for my strange, feverish nights with the Cephida Death Cult in Oaxaca. One has not lived until they've witnessed the phantasmagoric and positively sadistic Dark Yddhl Cephida Mass. The Yddhl are a vaguely insectoid extradimensional entity that reveal themselves only through ones' Cephida trip.

I was introduced to Cephida while operating a gunrunning operation in the region involving several members of a would-be military junta, and was introduced to that demon drug by my confidante Cabron Franciso, a slunk trafficking drag queen with a penchant for amyl nitrate and rum.

Porcupine Mange

Lozenges for life coaches on drug binges hinges on the habitual harlots that once were starlets. A stench of fecal flagrance for the winos and the vagrants, nicotine stains and porcupine mange for the damned or deranged. Once were lucid but now elusive, elucidating the Elysian Fields with high profit yields and urine shields for the well-heeled gamblers and rhinestone ramblers.

Corpse Wax

Few things are as crass as the stench of corpse wax and yet lately I have been haunted by this pungent perfume of the departed and doomed. I am somehow both dying and dead as I tread amongst the pervading dread, saying but not communicating that which is spoken but unsaid.

I have long been an avid enthusiast of the sins of fermented yeast and have appreciated the finer nature and lures of the Beast but I still shudder at the encroaching mutters - those dreadful whispers that accompanied our arrival from the womb and laugh at our inevitable departure at the tomb.

Grinning pale faces in claustrophobic spaces are our final companions in the crypt amongst dead flesh both wrought and ripped. Perhaps these apparitions are welcome for those souls blessed with such guests as the company of worms and morticians and yet I am damned in the land of those not yet given to decomposition.

The gruesome prattle of the death rattle is anticlimactic as I am already deceased and rot in pain but not in peace.  The songs of the whippoorwill resonate even in this institution for the mentally ill as my skin becomes clammy and finally chill.

Old Scratch

He noticed the man had dull black eyes like a dead rabbit. Her father shuddered, more from memories of rabbit fever than superstition.

The crops and livestock had long since died in the drought. All was quiet, apart from the man walking down the hill. 

Her father turned back to the house to get drunk. Her mother had always left the light on at the bottom of the stairs. A stupid, childish thing he had said.

That night she woke in complete darkness. Downstairs the man was waiting.

The Greys

The masochistic pop music stylings of shy Zeta Reticuli caused some manner of madness mostly observed in masturbatory mastodons and leperous prostitution johns.

Dark Days

Dark days in Winnipeg and yet darker still in the unforgiving Tropic of Capricorn – feverish days of my preemptive paranoia of prying Paraguayan prefecture.

An encrypted telegraph from a Somali samaritan alerted me to several plots involving rancid beef tartare or devious designs of the utmost bizarre, in scenarios ranging from lazy lull to Gran Guignol. 

Assassination fixations involving the guillotine or poisoned Ovaltine were spurred by my investigation into the long since settled ham n' cheddar vendetta of the Queen involving spank party rags from a Cambridge dean or the greasy ghost of Edward Gein.

Freak TV

Let’s welcome our studio audience of garish ghouls and drug mules to the original primetime perversion – Freak TV. 

The one and only source for gruesome insects and incisions on your television - chill in fright at the half-man half-mite and thrill at the site of midget wedding rites or the social grooming of Satanic suburbanites.

Dare to consider the wicked wench from the South with trench mouth and watch but never linger within the grasp of the tickler with 13 fingers.

Ragtime for a Loup-Garou

I have researched the varied anecdotal evidence regarding historical waves of wolf type murders in that hive of voodoo infested, hoodoo congested quantum of perversity that is New Orleans.

I was told tales of a creature that had terrorized Mardi Gras in 1909, a furry demon of the damned that was supposedly executed and deposited in a shunned mud bog notorious for its use as an Indian burial ground for the loup-garou. In a Southern realm of the fantastic the loup-garou stands out as a sinister hex, a hellish fable that even Creole natives whisper about in hushed tongues.

And yet those familiar with the blackest rites of voodoo know the dead sleep but do not die, wait but do not perish. The proper rituals can summon the deceased, Man or Beast.

This horrific creature from 1909, at once damned and blessed by its clumsily unnatural and awkwardly heretical burial, will come once again to collect souls of both innocents and sinners, if one may be so bold as to readily distinguish between the two.