This morning at 3:17, I was overcome with eleven streams of thought in angel dusted delirium—maddening monsoon of mentality—frigid palm shellacked in viscid phlegm. I ferociously shook my arm leaving my hand limp yet unable to shake the iced lubricity from my fingers; spread wide and webbed to avoid touching one another. My mouth opened beyond any ligamentous shearing point—jaw muscle cramped in blistering knots. My mood indescribable, my perspective fevered. An emerald isosceles trapezoid twirled within my left eye—five points notated in silver nimbus, rotating counterclockwise—splintering my vision in undulating octaves. As weird as this sounds, the strangeness had all but begun.
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Posts Tagged horror
Angel Dusted Delirium
Jan 13
Warning: Do not read this if you are easily offended or nauseated (though this episode is really light). Please read part one before this. I offer episode 2 of my transgressive psychosexual blog soap opera: All My Hungarian Children 2 – Sexual Stench: unapologetic, brazenfaced, shameless and unblushing. I am so repulsed by normal soap operas where everyone is rich (even the poor people), living perfect lives, everyone is beautiful and has great careers. I reject the norm as the norm is actually more far fetched and absurd than anything I write here. This is set in the sea side town of Long Beach Mississippi–where everyone is either poor or struggling middle class. People are often ugly, do horrific things and wear a mask of Christianity to hide their perverse drug addicted nature. This is the putrid underbelly–the netherworld most normal people fail to see–while it thrives in every city festering like repugnant rot. Now for episode two:
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Welcome to my new blog soap opera, All My Hungarian Children–the world’s first transgressive psychosexual blog soap opera–or maybe just one of millions, I really don’t know. I’ve been yearning to create a series, and this is the first of many to come. I promise a potent dose of my ribald humor, grotesque vision and psychological depravity known to egress from my psychoses. I am unimaginably busy working on my novels, but I cannot stop blogging. I’ve written about many subjects, like blogging tips, SEO, social networking and so forth–but those subjects are tired and boring to me–no longer part of my repertoire. Here I present episode one of All My Hungarian Children. I have once again written myself into a bizarre world of sickening delights to make your skin crawl and wrench your stomach. Tell your friends. Tell your neighbors. I promise to not disappoint.
The psychotic face of Bobby Revell
Scene One: Borsala’s Agenda
Borsala Meszaros, a powerful beast of a woman–thickly muscled arms draping like meat hooks–her latissimus dorsi horrifically sculpted from years of sweat drenched toil–tore a fibrous chunk of beef jerky from the gargantuan meat knot, stuffing the remainder in her arm pit for safe keeping. I was spellbound by her herculean strength, but could not refrain from staring at her through a crack in my backyard fence. Her face was beautifully strange: thick plated forehead bone, gnarled nose with widely flared nostrils and succulent cherry lips–repulsive and undeniably sexy.
Three muscular preschool children swaggered beneath her everywhere she walked. They looked like triplets but all bore fetid deformities or possible scarred-over injuries from late night beatings and torture sessions. With vigorous claws she began scooping dirt like a starving aardvark–within seconds digging a massive trench in the humid clay. She clapped her hands–a mist of filth exploded from sinewy fingers–saying, “Jozka, Jozsef, Joszi . . . do business now. Hurry, supper almost ready.” The three naked children squatted and shat into the crevasse–my stomach became queasy but turn away I could not. She snatched one up by the hair, and with the same hand managed to grasp all three–lifting their naked bodies high with densely shredded deltoid–spraying them off with a water hose. She violently shook them, “Stop fidgeting . . . if I drop beef jerky, I will be mad mommy–the cold water good for young boy’s character.” She spun like a human centrifuge–her arm outstretching as water droplets pelted my face across the yard–drying her boys the cyclonic way. She quickly ripped her head around–her eyes laser guided into my face. I was mortified but couldn’t move–couldn’t stop gazing–she marched towards me ripping three boards from my fence leaving me cowering on my knees before her.
I managed a squeaky,”I’m so sorry . . . I didn’t mean to spy on you.”
“Stand up,” she said, “Is OK with Borsala–you are delectable young thing aren’t you . . . stand up . . . what is your name?”
“Bobby.”
“Come closer Bobby,” she commanded–indomitable arms crushing me against her body–my face smashed tightly between her robust mammary glands, “you sweet young thing make Borsala very horny–if only husband not home, I make love to you right here on the dirty ground. How old are you?”
“Twenty-one . . . look, my mother is looking for me–we’re going to church . . . so I gotta go.”
She increased tension–her knobby nipple seated in my eye socket as she moaned, “You shiver like headless chicken. You rudely don’t ask Borsala her name.”
I was human putty in the inextinguishable clutch of femininity as I barely muttered, “What is your name?”
She forced her husky tongue within my left nostril–licking my eyebrows clean–her breath surprisingly sweet, like fresh cut strawberries–her bare nipple fondling my lips with a machinist’s precision, “My name Borsala . . . Borsala Meszaros . . . Meszaros mean butcher. You come to my home for dinner right now . . . yes?”
“Yes Borsala, I would be honored to have dinner in your home.”
“Good Bobby . . . tonight I serve Hungarian goulash and whiskey. You meet my husband Laszlo and my beautiful daughter Florka–she scrumptious flower–maybe you sexually attracted to her–maybe you two make love tonight.”
Still trembling in fear–my entire body quaking, I said, “Make love to who? What . . . what are you talking about?”
She stripped bare and kicked her left leg high, holding her calf against her face saying, “Borsala flexible . . . you look at my body you succulent morsel of virgin male . . . you like?”
Her enormous breasts hung mightily in the wind while her buttocks were infected with morbid pustules and chaffing rashes–she pulled me closely and began cleaning my ears with her lips and tongue–frothy saliva–moistened oral appendages kneading, massaging, molesting my every cleft. She licked with care–she licked with love–I felt safe and warm in her steely embrace. In a stupor of fright I said, “Yes Borsala . . . I like.”
She said, “You taste like salted cucumber. You like? Of course you like . . . you are fertile young male in need of female touch. I ask husband can you sleep over tonight . . . with Florka . . . she is virgin like you.”
“But I’m not a vir . . . .”
She smacked me across the face, “Shut up Bobby . . . yes you are virgin.”
This ghastly tale to be continued . . .
A twitching fly danced nervously across her eyebrow with jittery spasmodic maneuvers, foraging for secreted oils and mites along each individual hair strand, suckling nourishment with its moistened labellum. But she didn’t mind. Perhaps it was her pet, perhaps it has a name. Maybe she had it trained to keep her slanted brow clean, providing warmth and hospitality in return. I waited for her to speak, but she did not.
“So, what’s his . . . or her name?” I asked, my eyes intensely focused on her pet fly.
Her head remained locked in position, angled forward and staring down at the table, but her eyes rotated like security cameras towards my mouth, “I am a female. I have the features of a woman. Is this your first day outside?”
I was late for work just trying to read the paper and enjoy my morning coffee when she sat before me. Normally I wouldn’t mind and even converse on occasion, but the fly was still there and her fingernails were jagged, gnawed and thickened black crust lined her cuticles and brims. “Yes, I know you are a woman,” I replied, deciding to steer away from questioning about the fly in case she was the devil, “Names Bobby.” Her eyes rolled back down, shunning me. Words flew from my lips before I could think, “Weren’t you in this month’s issue of High Times magazine?”
Forgotten Slabs of Nothingness
With alien machination, her neck gyrated upright; calcium deposits between her cartilaginous discs crackled and popped within her long stiffened joints. She purposefully and agonizingly extravasated a tear droplet from her left eye as the fly inched in to drink, to humidify and refresh. She answered, “Bah!” She slams her fist onto the table, an unexpected eruption of anger, “Who cares what you say, you cannot fool me, you are not Myiagros.”
Her vicious scowl dissolved in Christmas-morning-funeral-sadness and she began crying, her fly masterfully navigating betwixt an avalanche of tears. Shivering, her filthy hands twittering, I feared surrounding eyes may take notice but I remained hypnotic, still as dead rock, unable to quiver. I offered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, I can be snarky at times.”
Like a starving child weak from disease and hunger, thirsting desperately for love, she gazed into me. Pleading for comfort in clairvoyant reverberations, a telepathic resonance of kindness, realizing there was hope after all. She softly groaned, “You hate me don’t you. You despise me, I can sense it,” she tripled her volume and intensity, “after 2443 years, you want back in my life? You think you can dispose of me like a diseased toilet rag and expect my love? You don’t deserve to live you putrid pustule of human trash.”
I was locked in place as frozen bone knot while a whispering, almost inaudible musical note was voiced through my lips: a perfectly intonated B flat beyond my control, “hmmmmmm.”
She began giggling with a little girl’s devious smile. In timbre of angelic desire, her moistened voice slid easily into the blistering itch, the desirous tissues within my throbbing eardrums, a poetry of revelation:
“I am your mother, you are my maggot. This I composed for you my sweet:
Slab Of Chunk
One thousand angles remain uncarved
precise facets itch to be revealed
profuse loaf of marrow
my slab of chunk
parched friction shiv
glossed chimera; egged Neoptera
we give, we love, we taste, we feed
one thousand sculptured futures
could be
chiseled from thickened clot
my bulb root
my dead curd
my bone knot
a chunk of possibilities; my slab of dreams
molded from my gristle plug
a hand forged expression
my tortured hunger
kneading raw lobe
gentle fingers coaxing
chunk shapeless; viscid spume
purging what is not
unveiling itself
unessentials cleaved; liquids interleaved
leaving only you and I.”
By holding my breath and squeezing my ribs inward, I unbelievably coaxed my eyes to scan the surrounding tables. A room full of people eating breakfast, chatting or drinking coffee—but nobody noticed me—in the clutch of supreme terror as this wretched nymph spat linguistic venom in my eyes. She is my master, my instructor, my possessor, she who enforced governance; imposed policy and owned my eternity. It seemed I was here for years enshrouded in her being.
With razored exhalation, blood steam escaped her lips shaped as mucid wasps, hissing shades of twirling flame, scented in raspberry. Her flavour the stink of unbathed sex, immoral and pulsating. Words egressed from her sweetly, “Thank you for this my lover . . . kiss me.”
Her flesh disrobed in nakedness, her wet tongue engrafting my entirety. Her supple breast melted into me as we grew together as epidermal slabs, an undulating mass of human dough for all eyes to devour. Floating within parallel dimensions, we were exhibitionists, loaves of enjoined marrow, unsculptured futures carved by Leviathan.
Cold fingers of jagged bone slithered from her gaping cleft, locking vice claws into her face as the stench of rotting death bathed my soul. Frigid vibrations of scorching acid shredded my bones into jelly, she rejected me, bone nails peeled her skull of flesh revealing blackened morbidity. Raped by demon. My cloaked seductress. My unforgettable lesson.
I exploded forth, escaping this depraved madness . . . screaming, “Get off of me you cantankerous hideous bloodsucking goth.” My fists clenched into molten hammers as I endlessly beat and pulverized the cyclopean harlot—blood smoke and gristle choked from ghastly lacerations—gnarled organs spilling to the floor.
I was slammed to the concrete, steely hands shaking me while my cranium bounced, splintering between thuds, “What the hell is wrong with you mister? Icy water splattered across my face; my body still fighting. But I was smothered beneath several men holding me down. “Are you in there? Look at me . . . calm down!”
“Yes, thank God, I can see you. Oh please, thank God. Is she dead? Is she still here?”
The man looked perplexed, twisted in confusion, “Sir, what the hell are you talking about? You walked in here thirty seconds ago asking for your mother and blood started dripping from your eyes, nose and mouth. I mean it was freaking spraying everywhere. You collapsed but Jessica, our hostess, caught you in her arms. We placed you right here on the floor. The ambulance is on the way, just stay with us.”
“Jessica . . . it was her, the demon whore who did this—”
Tears oozed atop her brimmed flesh fold, trickling down her cheek, “What? Oh no sir, I saved your life. I’m so sorry, my name is Jessica. I just want you to be alright.” She took my hand and began praying for me, kissing the crucifix draped around her throat. “Dear lord, have mercy on his soul, please let him live. Please God.”
An unknown slab of time has since passed. I am only guessing I’ve been in this medical facility for months. Now, I lay bed ridden in this cold white room. Awake only a few hours, I wrote this, the details of my ordeal to the best of my recollection. I cannot feel my legs. I feel numb, dead, lost. I have no idea who I am, only my last memories, and Jessica. I am so alone, so very alone. Perhaps I don’t even exist, perhaps I’m dead, or in hell. I shall never forget her poetry, her scent or her complexity. I only know I love her. I forgive her and she forgives me. We will be together endlessly.
I’ve yet to see anyone else here, no doctors, no nurses. I would give anything to simply have a fly nest on my skin, to be my friend and receive my undying love. I lay here hoping to know, to know something, to know anything at all.
This concludes my new journal for this unknown day in time, and now I must sleep.Sincerely,
Somebody
*I wrote this unplanned. I sat down and just started typing, allowing my expression to consume me. The experience of writing this was quite visceral and during the entire journey, I was in a trance. Writing is like a drug for me. I care not the outcome. I’m in it for the living expression, to exude a tale naturally and absolutely unforced. I know not what you call this story, but to me it is a slithering organism, a quivering slab of gelatinous ooze. I lived this as it was written, and was detached in a vacuum of becoming. This is my painting. Underlying all intention was a vibe of hope. I hope someone out there enjoys this and moreover, I simply want to give inspiration away.
FYI, the character Jessica or in full, Jessica Lenora Summer, is a major player in my novel. I revealed nothing about her, but rest assured she is responsible for my psychotic meltdown in this tale. She prays from of the kindness of her heart and her intention to save and nurture is authentic, but beneath her facade she is powerful and deceptive. Expect to know her slowly, because in truth, no human should ever even glance at her.
Cliché and Bubbles
Dec 8
Marianna took a sip of her chamomile tea–a slight tinge of anger purposefully posed to hide her inner pain–she stopped typing, clearing her throat, “Hmm . . . but I want a strong female protagonist–not just wise from epiphany, but one who changes because of years of realization, overcoming her hatred of men. I freaking hate epiphany in a story . . . it’s such a cliché. And like Mrs. Talbot said in class, if you want to transcend common plot themes, formulaic structure and all the other common vehicles in all of fiction, the cure is to have characters you care about–characters who change.” She took another sip of tea and started biting her middle finger nail, “Give me another line.”
I plopped a thick chunk of iridescent cocaine onto the marble counter top, stretched a five dollar bill across it cupping the edges with my fingers and smashed the coke with a Bic lighter. I started chopping it into smaller pieces with Marianna’s eyes fixated, mesmerized in anticipation. I said, “Deconstruction.”
“Deconstruction?”
“Yes, I am deconstructing this chunk of Bolivian flake. It’s so funny–you do realize that everything, every theory, every literary concept including deconstruction is a cliché–life itself is a fucking cliché. Cliché and bubbles.”
She rolled up the five dollar bill to form a makeshift straw as I prepared her a fat line, “You said cliché and bubbles?”–leaning in, snorting her line, “Cliché and bubbles . . . explain what the hell that’s supposed to mean.”
I snorted an equally thick line, leaning my head back and plugging my left nostril with my pinky while tears trickled from my left eye. I took a sip of tea, “This happens every time I snort a line. I used to only use my right nostril until it started hurting every time I did, so I finally switched to my left–just like a protagonist who gets tired of boring sex with his wife and has to switch to a secret mistress every time he switches snorting cocaine to his left nostril. See, that could be a story right there but I digress.”
She giggled, “You’re married and snorting through your left nostril–and I suppose I could be thought of as your whore . . . hmm.”
“Don’t change the subject or I will psychologically destroy you and write a New York Times best seller about your demise. Cliché and bubbles. Think about it, all the frivolous bullshit Mrs. Talbot says is all cliché. Even her own book, The Inner Lotus, is so ridiculously contrived, I almost committed suicide after reading it. Another boring love story where the characters change–all the action and story is revealed through conversation and several lives are intertwined against the backdrop of world war two. It’s much like your story, where you try to employ these same devices. After reading your entire manuscript, your attempt in revealing the character’s traits through pure conversation with hardly any description is quite pathetic.”
“What? Pathetic? I’m looking for positive criticism,” she says becoming noticeably agitated, her eyes looking glazed over from fifty hours of no sleep, “I’ve worked so hard on this . . . my first book . . . my dream.”
“Calm down girl, I’m not done. Bubbles. Think about how everything in life is a bubble–a bubble which eventually pops, after which both destruction and despair ensue–often followed by rejuvenation and fresh conditions of growth and change. Like the American economy . . . a credit bubble. Politicians, banks and corporate greed are working hard to patch that bubble so it can re-inflate only to burst again–maybe for the last time, allowing a new society to emerge from the ashes. Life is a bubble, we keep our friends in one, we live and move through many bubbles . . . pop!” I violently clapped my hands together–Marianna’s heart almost exploded, the sound of beating muscle muffled within her frail chest.
“You scared the shit out of me Bobby . . . you jerk off. My heart is beating like a jackhammer, but I’m not tired at all–even after being awake almost a week. So how does all this help my story?”
“Marianna . . . why does your main character hate men? I’ve noticed all your main characters in every story you write hate men. You’re not married, you don’t have or want a real boyfriend–as you always say . . . hmm. Something is going on with this entire motivic movement throughout all your stories. I’m your classmate, study partner and boy toy…your male whore. You will never love me, and it’s simply because I’m a man. I think you really do hate men in real life. Women who were molested as children by their fathers are often promiscuous and have sex only relationships–much like the relationship we have now. Who knows, maybe you hate me, maybe you’re plotting to murder me.”
She’s too high to understand, but I’ve stirred up something disturbing in her psyche, some deeply buried pain in her past–I can almost hear the gears of repressed memories churning in her subconscious. She carefully plans her words in a feeble attempt to mask her inner turmoil, “My protagonist, Danielle, well . . . her father didn’t love her. He didn’t love her mother. I cover it somewhat, but wanted to leave the dark moments to the imagination of my readers. I think it best to not reveal everything.”
I wickedly smirk, “You need to delve into this darkness. It is the missing ingredient.”
She seems transfixed on my words, “Really? You really think so?”
“Yes indeed. Add some twisted concepts of transgressional fiction in the story. How about this: Danielle is seeing a hypnotherapist, who has her in seriously deep regressive therapy, unlocking horrifying events in her past. She remembers her mother being raped by her father while she was a little girl. Her father locks her head in a vice so she is forced to watch–her eyes taped open–hour after hour of sickening rape and terror. Later on in the story, amidst marrying her dream man and supposedly cured from her torment, she has repeated dreams that when she was born, her mother was at home and had no medical help–the nearest hospital too far away for her to ever reach. Her mother needs a cesarean section, but cannot get one. The baby Danielle, who as an adult known for her strong will–the strong will you wanted her to have as a character trait–is actually born with adult teeth, a rare trait only one in two-thousand babies are born with–eats her way out of her mother’s womb with her freakish adult teeth, devouring her uterus and organs. The doctor finds baby Danielle cradled in her mother’s blood sodden, hollowed out cavity–pop goes the bubble. She wakes up–a repeating dream from which she cannot escape, but tells no one. The repetitive nightmare is a reflection of her own will to fight . . . to live and escape from her pain–to escape from her bubble . . . her prison of misery.”
Marianna is in tears, unable to speak, her hands trembling while she takes a sip of chamomile tea to calm her nerves. Seemingly almost in shock, she says, “Bobby . . . my real mother died when I was born, from a c-section. She bled to death on the operating table.” More tears gush forth.
“I’m not done Marianna. Draw some parallels, powerful parallels between her own desire to not hate men and deconstructing her own past, discovering why she’s so fucked up. The whole story can end with a reverse deconstruction, that ties the entire plot together–she puts the pieces together, constructing her life in an amalgamation of psychotic insanity and quest for hope and love. Her final dream of eating her way out, like a lizard from an egg shell–a second birth if you will, a birth to escape from her torture–is the most intense episode ever. She remembers how her mother’s flesh and blood tasted. She is unsure what is real: did she actually kill her own mother to save herself–a testament to her own will–did her father really rape her mother? Did your father rape you Marianna? Back to your story–maybe Danielle is so confused, her father actually raped her, not her mother–and the psychological scars are so deep, reality is a grisly pipe dream. They find her in the end after cannibalizing her husband the first night of her honeymoon, screaming I’m sorry mother over and over. She finally constructs her past and loses her sanity. Write a final paragraph about how she is shrouded in a straitjacket in an insane asylum. Weave all this transgressive violence into the framework of a standard, formulaic love story plot. That would be fucking awesome.”
Marianna suddenly stands up, tears streaming down her face, ridden with tortuous anguish, “Leave Bobby . . . leave and never come back . . . get the fuck out!” She throws her tea cup at me and collapses on the floor . . . sobbing. Jeez, I guess I stirred up some old feelings–well cry me a freaking river.
The following week in Mrs. Talbot’s creative writing class, Marianna wasn’t there. She announced that Marianna had committed suicide–she slit her own belly open with a straight razor while in the bathtub. The coroner said it was the most gruesome suicide he’s ever seen in his entire life. She had so much cocaine in her system, she almost gave herself a complete hysterectomy before she died. Since cocaine thickens blood, her rate of blood loss was slowed, allowing her to almost complete her self-operation. Marianna was such a cool chick – maybe I’ll write a story about her one day.
*This story is purely fictional. I wanted a short story based on transgressional fiction and conversation about people talking about writing a story based on conversation and transgressional fiction–my favorite type of fiction. I do realize it is not truly transgressional because the escape from societal norms is not complete, but does contain many elements of that peculiar genre. In a story this short, there’s not much room for character development – but it’s the best I could do with this situation. Because there is something wrong with me, I wrote myself into the story like I usually do in my blog fiction. In many ways, my character is a murderer, though easily gets away with it. Through psychological awareness, I keenly unlock Marianna’s pain, and she commits suicide–taking advantage of a mentally damaged woman while in a cocaine stupor – sickening indeed. If a real person did that for real, they would deserve to die. May your day be filled with joyful happiness!
I sat as a hopeless derelict sipping my thirty-seventh mug of Samuel Adams Boston Lager – swilling frothy brew from the bottom of my life barrel. I was a classless, bourgeoisie, and drunken vandal of rough-cut peasantry. It was a lonely night in Frank’s lounge – just Frank and I in his local rat-hole of a bar. It was 2:30 am and I had hoped for hours just one partially human form of female persuasion would walk in. Frank was the owner and bartender here for over fifty-one years.
“Where’s all the women at Frank?”
“The women?” he replied, “probably at home, living glorious lives – flourishing in pretentious coxcombs of magnificent vanity with their rich husbands – most of which just got home from a late night romp of prostitutes and gambling. If it gets too late, I’ll shave my beard and wear a platinum blond wig for you.”
I gagged a little and said, “I’ll pass on that Frank.”
An uppity, high class couple burst through the front door as frigid wind gusted in behind them – the thunderstorm unleashing armies of rain, blasting across the pool tables in maddening sheets. Frank rolled his eyes in dissent and said, “Close the damn door you insolent elitists.”
The couple closed the door and stood with disgust in their eyes. The man a tall duke of richness, sporting a handmade Giorgio Armani suit and Berluti shoes. He noted my observation and mentally compared them to my dirt encrusted K-mart sneakers. He said, “These shoes are the Berluti Ultima series. The tag line is ‘a shoe of conquest’ – check out the write up in this month’s GQ. I normally don’t wear them off the rack, so excuse me for wearing such scrubs, my shoe designer is busy in Ireland buying a $250,000.00 bottle of Irish whiskey. I am Lord Robillard Rockshire, noble and exalted patrician. My lady and I broke down a mile down the street, my Lamborghini 400GT stalled out. The light was on, and we need shelter from the storm – only for a short while mind you. This is my date, the delicious Alexandria Leopold, princess of sheik grandeur.”
Alexandra Leopold - Dream Date From Hell
She was so intensely beautiful – emanating a distinguished aroma of posh elegance. Drool drizzled from my widely opened jowls, onto my Fruit of the Loom wifebeater tank top. Frank said, “You wanted a woman Bobby…here’s your chance hehe.”
The rich man held a roll of French paper towels and began shrouding the bar stool for Alexandria to seat her perfectly voluptuous derrière – surprisingly, right next to me. I said while taking her sweet hand, “Alexandria, you are a goddess – do you plan to marry Mr. Jerkoff?”
Robillard cocked his finely styled brow in disesteemed aversion, “Remove your morbid paw from her hand you plebeian ragamuffin – no filthy vagabond shall touch the hand of a princess. She is far too well-born to associate with a commoner.
I refused his command and kissed her hand – hypnotically luring her in. I groaned, “Beauty is not on the surface – it is inside you my love.”
Goosebumps arose, cascading across her forearm as she wickedly smiled in lustful abandon. She wore a gorgeous black dress – it whispered superbly from her statuesque body in a waterfall of darkish delight. While Robillard struggled for the strength to fight me to the death, I leaned in closely to her and said, “I’m Bobby. What a scrumptious scent you have – crisp watermelon and tangerine?”
In angelic amplitudes she voiced, “I misted fresh fruit all over my body…taste my sticky lobe Bobby.”
I leaned in and gently tongued her neck and nibbled stickiness from her ear lobe, “Oh my…how splendid! All over your entire body? That dress. Don’t tell me, it was handmade by famed New York fashion designer Vera Wang – personally for you.”
She snickered in a lilting fashion, “What a sophisticated eye you have Sir Bobby.”
Robillard steamed in viciousness – anger painted his face in agonized misery as he noticed an imperfection in Alexandra’s evening purse. “This is not a real Louis Vuitton! The metallic trim is painted Japanese pot metal,” he said while scraping a chip from its false shimmer with his manicured thumbnail, “you disgusting liar. How dare your prance around like you’re royalty…as if! Alexandra…you can have this guttersnipe piece of street trash. Bobby…what kind of muckworm name is that? You vulgar piece of unlicked barbarian tripe.”
I replied, “Unlicked? Perhaps Alexandra can change that for me.”
Frank giggled with a gleam in his cloudy, cataract infested eye. Robillard, incredibly pissed, stormed out the front door. Before making it out, a flash of searing lightning exploded through his chest – his body shattered in bloody vapor – blood sodden bone, meat and Armani shredded into ribbons – voltage shattering through the screaming wind. The bar was permeated with the smell of charred steak as if prepared by Emeril Lagasse for a Hollywood gala.
Alexandra uttered, “I like what you said about beauty being on the inside,” and pulled an Olympus brand medical endoscope from her counterfeit purse – along with surgical blades, syringes and other assorted implements.
Endoscope
“Robillard was just killed by lightning! You seem unflinching Alexandra.”
She placed a pill in my mouth, tucking it beneath my tongue and said, “An aphrodisiac for our night together, let this chemistry dissolve in your mouth, Its substrates shall diffuse through your buccal cavity and boil your blood. Now lie down on the pool table for me.”
I sprawled across the green felt top - on my back, outstretching my limbs as the administered drug began gnawing on my medulla oblongata. I felt limp and paralyzed – my mind foggy, my inhibitions quelled. Frank locked the front door and approached with an evil scowl on his face. He placed a video camera near my unmoving head. He and Alexandra removed my clothes – feverishly giggling all the while. Frank began filming and said, “You stupid man. We’ve been plotting this for months Bobby. Alexandra is my daughter and you are just another victim in a long line of victims. I will sell this delectable snuff flick to investors in Ecuador for a million dollars.”
Alexandra stripped bare – her body so impeccable – a lustful thoroughbred of perplexing female beauty. She leaned in, running her icy tongue down my lifeless cheek – I remained silent, unable to speak or move. Though afraid, I was turned on like an up-flicked light switch. She ran the flexible camera end of her endoscope deeply into my left nostril and clicked the switch on. She connected a usb cable from the endoscope to another specially designed medical camera to film my inner cavities.
Endoscopic Sinus Voyage
She linguistically parted, ” I love this gargantuan tweety-bird tattoo on your belly Bobby – what an enigmatic choice. Check it out Frank, what lovely mucosa he has in his nasal cavities”
Frank replied, “Shove it in deeper, let’s have a look in his maxillary sinus cavities – the ones beneath his cheek bones…and draw some blood when you’re done.”
She hammered the endoscopic tip into my sinus until I heard a horrific crunch – fire hot pain blistered my skull, yet flinch I could not. Her supple breasts spasmodically jiggled – I thought to myself, “Damn…all that jelly and no toast.”
With a large syringe in her hand she inserted its hypodermic needle into my jugular vein – extracting intensely dark blood. She pulled it out and squirted its contents into a beautiful white porcelain bowl – a rare artifact of the Ming dynasty – to contrast the crimson shade against snow white.
“You were so right Bobby, beauty does come from within. Your blood is spectacularly refined – what shimmering splendor,” said the evil Alexandra as she held two razor sharp scalpels in her hands. Frank’s hands trembled while sickening immorality scribed his face in sadistic morbidity. The light began to dim as my vision dwindled into narrowing tunnels of fractured light. I remember the sounds of metallic instruments and giggling – endlessly unclean and inauspicious laughter…fading into blackness.
I awakened behind some garbage cans in an alley behind Walmart, seven miles away from Frank’s Lounge. I had no scars and was wearing a black dress – my body scrawled in satanic symbolism and hieroglyphic phonetics – images from a bizarre night in my past. I walked home in the dress – intensely embarrassed as passing school children laughed at me. I never ventured into Frank’s Lounge again and fear a strange video lurks somewhere in the nightmarish bowels of the Internet. If you’ve seen that video, please let me know the url. I know not what really happened to me that fateful night, but the deep scars of terror still haunt me to this day.
*The medical diagram is from Dr. Hazenfield
*The endoscope pic is from Larbert Highschool
Warning, this is extremely graphic, sadistically psychotic horror fiction. Come on read it…you know you want to.
Sleepwalking at a blistering pace – a mind of concrete, a body of clay – metallic sparks shattered from my feet like grinding wheels on iron. Or was I really there? I had been awake seventeen days on a heart throttling meth bender. The onyx sky devoid of light – no stars, no moon, no anything. The night felt dead. I thought I was being followed by some back alley thug, meth addict or caffeine amped street whore. Ahead in the distance, the luminescent nimbus of emerald green – a twenty-four hour Starbucks, just what the doctor ordered.
Starbucks
As I drew near my destination – in the corner of my periphery – I saw a girl’s dead body behind an industrial dumpster. I approached with extreme caution. I leaned in and was stricken by her beauty, the most scorching hot Asian goddess I had ever seen – a Starbuck’s waitress in a tiny green plaid mini-skirt. Blinded by sickening perversion, I placed my hand on her calf to see if she was alive. Oh my, what delicately silken epidermis.
“You scared the shit out of me girl!” I jumped out of skin in shock – she sat up and touched my face with her tender hand.
In exotic far east vociferation, she said, “Hello cowboy…trying to feel up a dead girl? You must be my three o’ clock. It’s 3:30 am, you’re late. What’s your name?”
“What?” I asked in perplexity.
She replied, “My boy Darnell sent you? Come inside the coffee shop until my 5:30 am break, I’ll be in need of your services – my itch will be perniciously vicious.”
“I thought you were dead…at first.”
She smiled, “Hehe…you perverted sicko American man! I’m not dead. I snort big line of killer meth and pass out…have big head rush.”
She held my hand as we walked in Starbucks – I had already fallen in love with her. She stopped short as our bodies grazed closely. Her lips plumped blood red, her eyes crystalline umber as she warmly whispered, almost kissing me, “What is your name?”
“I am Bobby.”
She retorted, “I am Noklek Kamchana Katsongrits, from Bangkok. Noklek mean little bird…gonna fly away…hehe. Just call me Nok. Your gun is poking me.”
I confidently boasted, “That’s not a gun.”
MMO Blogfest
Two uber-geek bloggers sat in the booth across from mine – wired on espresso – frenetically typing on their Mac laptops. One was this skinny black guy wearing a sky blue Twitter t-shirt, a skyscraper high triangular carved afro and neon purple tennis shoes with glow-in-the-dark orange laces. The other was a corpulent fat body with grotesque yellow teeth, a jet black mohawk, blond goatee, pale skin and sporting a shirt with “Master MMO Blogger” scripted on the front. He looked like he had been raised in a sunless dungeon of blogging hell. He looked at me and said, “Looking at something Ponchy? See this?” he pointed at the insignia on his shirt, “Master MMO blogger…that’s make money online my friend.”
I shot a wicked stare of nuclear despisement through his skull and said, “Who gives a fuck.”
He said, “That’s a negative attitude you have there. If you want to get rich blogging, you need positivity and keyword mastery! I have 107 blogs…saturating my niche. I fucking own my keywords dude. If you google money…my blog pops up first. I practically invented SEO. I make $150,000.00 per hour through Adsense. I am God. Name’s Newton “Niche” Nelson, my friend is Tyrell “Twitdawg” Wallace.”
I said, “I’m Bobby. Hey Twitdawg, any relation to Marsellus Wallace?”
He furrowed his thickened brow, “Never heard of him. Could you sit somewhere else? We’re like…blogging dude. People like you don’t even know what a blog is. Burn! Hahaha…eat our Internet dust you out of touch loser….go crawl in a hole and die from mediocrity. Where’s that Chinese waitress…I need an espresso,” he snapped his fingers, “Hündin!”
The gorgeous Nok gracefully sailed across the floor, her swaggering hips hypnotic, her perfection scintillating. She said, “Hündin means bitch.”
Twitdawg rudely blasted, “I know bitch…now get us an espresso…hahaha. Make sure you use an Italian grind…and make damn sure the top layer of creamy froth is dark beige. I didn’t like the shade of our last batch, it was more of a roasted sienna. I want it beige…and creamy, I like it creamy.”
The Lab-Kitchen
The words come with me gently rolled from Nok’s raspberry lips – I was mystified in drunken stupefaction. Her aroma was of iced jasmine as she held her body against mine – long cherry fingernails danced beneath my shirt as we kissed – long, slow and moist. She said, “This is our lab-kitchen, where the secret ingredients are prepared.”
I was mortified by what I saw – a putrified chemical factory stinking of ammonia and acid – a low tech meth lab encrusted in sickening filth.
Coffee Shop Meth Lab
The Meth Cook Dr. Dizzle
She said, “Bobby meet Dr. Dizzle, our cook.”
A repugnantly sore infested meth addict with ghastly blisters – partially dissolved teeth ornamented by decay and stench said, “I’m Dizzle, master cook foshizzle,” and held his unclean, trembling hand out to shake mine.
I twitched, almost retching, “Forgive me if I don’t shake hands. I’m Bobby.”
The Meth Cook Dr. Dizzle
Nok prepared two espressos on the inelegant counter, mixing in several clandestine substances – sweetly smiling at me while stirring. The meth cook held a razor sharp Gransfors Scandinavian Forest axe in his hands and said, “If those MMO bloggers give you any hassle…just holler,” and tossed me a huge bag of crystal, “that’s the shizznitt.”
Pandemonium in Starbucks
I sat back down in my booth and dumped the huge bag of pearlescent methamphetamine on the charcoal-black table top. I scooped it into my palms as the MMO master bloogers stared in disbelief. Newton asked, “Oh my God…what is that?
Handful of Meth
I dunked my face into the gargantuan pile, snorting like a Hoover vacuum. Soul scorching pain torched my nostrils – an inferno of tortuous agony riving chunks of tissue from my tender nasal fossae – spalling epithelial cells – a geyser of purplish blood squirted like rain across the chemical snow. Blood tears painfully secreted from my lachrymal ducts as I cried in anguish.
Nok screamed, “No Bobby…don’t snort too much, you could die from that. That’s 100% pure pink champagne aka pink ice. That ain’t no crackerjack bullshit.” She turned to the perplexed bloggers and said, “Here’s your espressos…I hope the frothy cream is beige enough for you…hehe.”
They smacked their espresso cups together and said, “Here’s to making money online,” and downed their triple shots of dizzle doused java. Twitdawg said, “Yeech…that was bitter…ewww. Beige creamy espresso, let’s research that key phrase and start a new niche phenomenon.”
I said, “I have a blog…Revellian dot com”
They both fulminated in laughter. Newton said, “Revellian Dot Com? Bwahhahaha! I’ve seen that crap…I actually blocked you on Twitter because you suck so bad. Look, a real blogger makes greenage…rakes in the cash. You gotta get your keywords, your anchor text, reduce the size of your home page below 100 kb, tweak your title tags, get some fucking strategy buddy! Get some branding going on! You’re not a blogger, you’re a disgrace.”
Nok stripped down to her tiny bra and panties and began rubbing moisturizing lotion on her tender thighs. She crawled on top of me and began nibbling on my ear lobe. She looked at the bloggers and said, “I put five grams of meth in each of your espressos. You’ll probably die in a few minutes…you stupid punks. Hey Dr. Dizzle..bring your axe out here!”
Twitdawg ran to the bathroom screaming in bloodcurdling fear. Newton hopped up, “Dude, my heart is beating like a jackhammer,” and began sobbing in a conniption fit, “why did you poison us you vulgar skank?”
Nok tenderly folded her icy tongue into my mouth swirling it around my lips – my heart stomping my ribcage – the potent stimulant slithering through my aorta – her soft hands kneading lust from my pores. she sensually groaned, “Don’t let him talk to me like that my lover.”
I was catatonic with insanity while the meth cook stormed forward – razors of fire riveting my skull as the humongous axe sliced though the air chopping Newton’s cranium in halves – his brain plopped onto the cold floor and spattered into what looked like blood sodden shrimp – cerebral blood noodles. The speed wired Dr. Drizzle eviscerated, chopped, diced, sliced and annhialted Newton into neatly formed sections – meth laced blood slobbered the walls – fine crimson mist vaporized the room in gaseous hemoglobin.
Nok violently gnawed my tender ear lobe, tearing a serrated cleft in my head – she ground a handful of meth into my eyes and viciously screamed, “Die you piece of shit!”
I lifted her above my head and slammed her frail body head first onto the stony floor. She crumpled like a weakened baby deer. As Dr. Drizzle charged me with his axe, I pulled out my Desert Eagle .50 caliber hand cannon. I squeezed off one round into his abdomen. His upper torso fell from his still running hips and legs like a Pez dispenser. His legless upper body miraculously landed upright – his arms flailing in frenzy – his legs drunkenly running like a decapitated chicken into the wall. He said, “Give me one more line of meth before I die…please.”
Nok opened her eyes – her twisted head sat crookedly on her severely broken neck, “I thought you didn’t have a gun.”
I smiled and said, “I lied,” and blew her skull into one thousand bone slivers. The entire room was painted in blood – my masterpiece of psychoses – my Rembrandt of hatred. I jacked my knee high, clipping my own collar bone and savagely stomp kicked the doctor in the face – his pre-dissolved skull splattered apart. My kick was ferocious, but it was the years of meth abuse that had digested his facial bones. It was like stomping into a huge bowl of Fruity Pebbles – chunks of brain matter and torn flesh had shot in my mouth.
Twitdawg stood before me – his eyes opened in miles almost popping from their sockets. I asked, “Does my blog suck?” with the gun barrel pointed at his head.
“No Bobby…you have the best blog I’ve ever seen and I promise to read it every day. Please don’t kill me. I’ll add you as a friend on Twitter and Facebook too.”
“Chill out Twitdawg,” I said while chewing fleshy pieces of Nok – my human fig newton, “I hate that freaking name…I’ll call you Tyrell. Now help me burn this place to the ground.”
We walked into the darkness as a violent firestorm of hellish flame exploded across the horizon. I stayed wide awake for an additional 19 days and nights – or so my therapist tells me.
- All I could think while writing this was if I went too far for a blog horror story. Did I?
- This story is absolutely fallacious, made up, untrue, perfidious, recreant and treacherously sadistic psycho-horror fiction written by Bobby Revell.
- All names and places are falsified fiction.
- I’ve never even been in a Starbucks and after writing this, probably never will.
- Meth is a horrible drug and I do not condone its use nor recommend anyone try it as it will destroy your life.
- Tyrell “Twitdawg” Wallace currently resides in an insane asylum where he lives as a vegetable and refuses to drink coffee.
Superglue Psycho
Oct 30
And finally, I had reached the apex of primordial psychoses – staring at my evil father as he lay passed out drunk on his ancient paisley patterned Sears & Roebuck couch. I sneered wicked at him – superglue in one hand and a finely honed straight razor in the other. Before I committed this deleterious act of venomous hatred, memories of woeful affliction glissaded betwixt my sadistic thoughts. I remember what you did father. I remembered Halloween night 25 years earlier…
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