Wendigo Blues

My latest chiller thriller Wendigo Blues will be in the latest (January 27, 2013) edition of Schlock!. The inevitable sequels Wendigo Takes Manhattan, Son of Wendigo and A Bullet for Wendigo are currently gestating.

Borgia in My Pocket

Our romance was lurid yet repugnant like cankerous feet in satin sheets or turning tricks and treats for ticks and beets. In the land of ends to meet and ticklish deceit these aren't the truths of love but the truths of the street.

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.

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.

Tex-Mex and Tragedy

Life is a tragedy wrapped inside an existential taquito - my post college angst has accumulated not unlike the mystery orange grease which puddles inside Taco Bell plastic bags.

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.

Oklahoma City

A deceptive wink and pull can sting like the kick of a mule and yet I fell in love in that whorehouse promising champagne and chicas bonitas but providing soggy papas fritas and middle aged Lolitas.

West Memphis Saturday Night

My liver was soaked on top of a nose full of cat’s croak when the truck driver with a neck tattoo that may or may not have been of Merle Haggard first spit and then staggered.

There is nothing in life as dangerous as a loose woman, a distant second and third being dog-legged next of kin and jealous husbands and boyfriends.

I was the king of sin and sleaze from the seven seas to Tastee-Freez when I met that thick gal with ham hocks in knee socks, and I’ll never forget the way her bingo wings jiggled with the creak of the box springs.

There are those who choose to live the life of a true romantic, those I-40 lotharios who dare to dream, and yet those dreams do regularly involve staring down a hog’s leg amongst lot lizards, buzzards and the over-fed.

Damnation

Wenches will be more cloying in their desire to be domesticated and chairs shall become slightly more uncomfortable as the date of our destruction nears.

The world shall burn, an incessant hellish buzzing as all Man shall live within the collective rectum of a dread legion of locusts with the faces of men and the wings of demons.

Mushroom clouds and black shrouds will greet the unholy pilgrims and saints of sin as the earth beneath us liquefies into a tentacled mass consuming unspoiled milk and rectifying all but the unresurrected.

Feast becomes famine as the children feed an army of false prophets and liars into the whirlpool of fire, thorns and briars will purify the tainted, damned and the dire.

A rambling chaos in which legs become arms and our souls are farmed, chicken nuggets and gizzards will be harvested as geese become lizards.

Watery low alcohol swill and gray tasteless cheese will placate the masses as Satan and his minions claim Dominion over a prized dimensional domicile of abandoned Pizza Huts, fruit cups and yeasty sluts.

Goatees and masturbation fees will become mandatory as crutons found in futons feed a multicultural bureaucracy which will be tasked in auditing our respective karmic depreciation. This will be supervised by the nefarious three-headed goat which shall determine whether a straight-line or accelerated method is preferable.

Alias Super Caligula Part I: Sex with Catfish People in Florida Cracker Country

My long awaited magnum rope-a-dopus, a tale of forbidden love, tragedy and circle jerks - Alias Super Caligula

The sixth result for "catfish" on Wikimedia Commons

Those feverish nights of Macau, where the opium drool of topless ghouls had left me nostalgic for that dreary Marseille house of lecherous congress of which the tales told are quite the longest. This the den of unequivocal sin with nightly sermons preaching a piety of the pornographic variety, and where one must abstain from bleating cries as the teenagers whip thy.

In this blighted hole of a dozen venereal vectors I still found myself haunted by the spectre of her vaginal nectar, she a Flemish blackjack dealing trapeze artist that had honed the trombone after snorting paprika amongst the ghosts of Costa Rica. 

    

I learned she had been subjected to the dreaded squaw cactus torture particular to the pompadoured Nudie suit Reno mafia, and in my ill-advised adventures in vengeance I found myself deceived by French killers, baited by throngs of wanton women and poisoned by spider venom.

I survived but awoke in a Maltese pit of vicious vipers and Corsican pipers, yet my own snake charming technique of imitating mating parakeets with clicks within the cheek rendered these painted clowns of grotesque frowns dead from bites by cobras and the fanged rites of Zozobra.

Nevadan felons and rhinestone watermelons led the trail to another honey trap bordello in those dank forbidden swamps of wampus cats and swollen rats east of Tallahassee.  Dusty ways through musty yellow hallways echoed the horror of chickens clucking and banjos plucking as I jack flapped the shucked lovelorn born of corn. 

I was forced to kiss the rouged cheeks of bestial catfish freaks, part human yet choked in the chatter of cooking batter.  This the utmost unspeakable – sex with catfish people in Florida cracker country.

Wide mouthed whiskers of gilled drifters excited the chicken fried fervor of our aquatic restaurant servers - the fate of lost ears and limbs of unsuspecting fishermen I had doubt no more. And yet these lost soles alerted me to the orchestrator of the assassination of my Flemish fixation.  

Austrian pimp spymaster.  Dark glasses and stringy hair slicked back with molasses accentuating the sneer of cheap colon, cigarettes, stale strudel and staler beer. Frotting hire and cocaine supplier of his trusted Afrikaner counterpart, Die Kakkerlak, and numerous sycophantic assassins for both East and West.   

Name.  Johann Schön.  

Alias?  Super Caligula.

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.