A Long Time Ago

We'll meet again in the place where forgotten dreams stitch the seams of moon beams.

Happy Trails

Bolivian cattle and gauchos in the saddle ride happy trails with incontinent quails in liturgical veils, cocaine rails or belligerent snails comfort the cretins of Wales or the diabolical deacons of jubilant jails.

Olympus Mons Pubis

Olympus Mons Pubis or the hubris of Anubis anointed the corn pone cunts collecting candy corn in a coon's age, as local yokels yodeling laments of the Yuletide or lullaby sacraments of cyanide harassed heretical whores of Honduran hesitance, pestilence and common sense assaulted asinine oligarchs obnoxious in their octopi.

Horror Horror Horror

My latest spine-tingler Horror Horror Horror will be included in the upcoming Schlock! anthology.

The Exploitation Art of C. Lloyd

Poconos

We left for the Poconos apropos, enjoying the platypus twats and gingerbread blots served at the buffets for masturbation moratoriums and gang bang emporiums. The ichor of gonorrhea and rites of Santería gratified me in their bubonic colonic rapture, even as the holistic hoarders without borders scratched their phantom limbs on jungle gyms.

Dog Days

Cargo cults appeased the ghost of Dutch Schultz with rattlesnake molts and gingersnap jolts, as the syphilitic sinners quivered in their dinners - feasting on their flesh in the haunts of Marrakesh.

Finnophobia

I have had much difficulty overcoming my acute and unnatural loathing for all things Finnish, and have long considered the glum mountain dwellers as abominations descended from miscreants. I have always found a special kind of abhorrence in fjords, and have woken up screaming from nightmares of Lapp children singing. 

For years I had attributed my irrational fear as a reaction to Finland’s high literacy rate and yet only later discovered that my lifelong phobia was a direct result of an artifact in my possession since childhood, an idol from a bear worshiping Sami cult.  

The unique hex conjured by a long dead shaman had caused the previous two owners - a Russian anthropologist and a Spanish museum curator - to go quite mad. The curse starts with mild Finnophobia, with the victim eventually succumbing to feverish dreams of reindeer herds and contemporary Finnish power metal.
 

After piecing together the intricate puzzle I successfully lifted the curse by returning the idol to its rightful owners in the Arctic Circle. 

I still find the throaty traditional joik singing style of the Lapps to be second only to the death rattle in terms of sheer audio horror, but I am now a Finnophobe in recovery. 

The Wives and Crimes of C. Alistair Borgia, Esq.

From a precocious age I had fancied the fantastic, financing my foreign forays of ageing whores and post-opium malaise by conning the needier, or paying Paul to rob Peter and other schemes in which the scheming was oh so seedier.

And yet the finer things in life such as duck flambé on a Bangkok holiday or naked serenades from the tribal women from the unexplored regions between Borneo and the Jakarta Bay have not tamed my lust for fortune and fame.

They Call Him Borgia

To this day the taste of gin reminds me of coerced pygmy hunting, a grotesque past-time I was obliged to attend after my mandatory wedding to the princess of a prominent sultanate. My disappearance resulted in a manhunt that only ended after I was able to acquire a white shrunken head bearing my likeness, a gruesome trinket that sufficed to satisfy the Belgian mercenaries that had tracked me into the darkest hells of the Congo.

Two juntas and a massage parlor later I telegraphed my thanks to my resident procurer, Sven Svensen of the Stockholm Natural History Museum, for obtaining the authentic shrunken head which likely had belonged to an unfortunate member of an Italian film production crew cannibalized in the Amazon.