Revellian

Thoughts and Fiction of Bobby Revell

Posts Tagged psychoses

The Ugly Bitch

Apr 5

Posted by Bobby Revell in horror, transgressional fiction

Vanilla smoked lies sweetly burn behind Mia’s gaze as she air-brushes her flawless face with her Dinair Media Spa kit purchased from Nieman Marcus, which she bought on sale for only $1450.00. She mists perfume across her neckline and says, “Mildred, will you clasp my necklace? And don’t worry, I’m almost finished getting ready.”

“Yeah sure,” she says while gazing at Mia’s perfection in the mirror, “but I don’t know why you have to get all fixed up, we’re not going out.”

“Well, I may go out. I know this is our night, but I may have a date with Bradford Merrick, the financial titan Bradford Merrick. I know you don’t understand, but I have an image to uphold. I’ve been studying the Anthony Robbins  Ultimate Edge CD series and success should be reflected in one’s appearance. Everything I do, say, every action I take has purpose, and without purpose we are losers. I’ve changed my life for the better: the guys I date are successful, my friends are successful, and I loathe to associate with anyone not on my frequency: the frequency of abundance.”

Mildred feels ugly. Ugly inside and out. Her neck-less skull sits imploded betwixt thick shoulders, a lead anvil hammered into spine, splattering a slight hump across her upper back. A miscreant goth she is, though smart and philosophical. She clasps the necklace and says, “Don’t you think you’re taking this image thing too far? For god’s sake, everyone knows you’re beautiful. You have doctors, lawyers, professors crawling at your feet. I mean Bradford Merrick bought you a corvette and barely knows you, how does that happen? You know the rest of the world doesn’t experience that stuff. And I doubt your interpretation of Anthony Robbins is right.”
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Britney Spears Concert Killers

Jan 25

Posted by Bobby Revell in transgressional fiction

This story is rated R. Enjoy the Britney Spears concert. And the killers.

Wednesday June 1, 2005

I stood chatting to Selena at the coliseum ticket booth. I had been dying to go out with her, but she made the mistake of telling me where she worked, purposefully I suspect. She was exceedingly private. A mystery. But beautiful.

“So you get off at five? Have dinner with me Selena. Let’s continue that great conversation we had the other day.” I hoped she thought it was great too. She made a point of telling me exactly which booth she worked in. I was so smitten with her I failed to observe who was in line. It was Ashley, my girlfriend from years earlier. I noticed a French-cut three karat diamond engagement ring on her finger.

“Hi Bobby. Still chasing girls. Still the same old Bobby. She noted Selena’s name tag, “Selena, don’t waste your time with this one, he’s only after one thing.”

Selena was aggressive and backed me up, “Sure Bob, I’d love to have dinner.”

Ashley says, “Two tickets for Britney Spears,” slapped me with a nasty stare and swaggered by, trying to show off the superiority of her ass.

“Give me two for Britney too. Will you go with me?”

“You like Britney?”

“Not really, but why not? Let’s go together.”

“Sure . . . let’s do it. I have to go anyway. I warn you, I am a little crazy and may just hurt someone.”

“I think I’m in love already.”

Three Years Earlier

In 2002 I was working as manager of a health food store in an outlet mall. I loved working there; selling vitamins, protein, herbs for people beyond medical help, coming to see the local witchdoctor for magical potions and last hopes. I drove down the interstate in my retinal-scorching-red pick up truck, smoking a huge joint of red haired sensemilla—exotic aroma infesting my clothes—eyes half-closed and bloodshot.

While negotiating a simple right turn onto the offramp (since totaling seven cars I drive carefully and never speed) a guy in a silver Lexus sports coupe aggressively tried to pass me on the minuscule shoulder, almost killing me. He forced his way onto the ramp, ahead of me, but I had no place to go. It was either die beneath the steely ram of an eighteen wheel semi or chance driving into a jagged ravine filled with rock to possibly make it to the offramp. I succeeded, but barely.

Miraculously, he was headed to the mall also and parked outside the high end clothing section, probably to buy himself a new $7000.00 Brioni suit. I emerged from my truck, raging in a fulguration of seething anger, explosively vicious, wearing a wretched scowl.

“What the fuck is wrong with you man? You almost killed me back there,” I blasted, but kept my gun holstered and hidden. He completely ignored me, too busy to pay mind to societal riff-raff. As I approached, my heart felt constricted. My ex-girlfriend was in his passenger’s seat wearing a wardrobe upgrade and new blond hair with extensions. She looked like a goddess.

A high class smirk engraved his face, “Excuse me buddy . . . could you park your piece-of-shit ragamuffin truck a few spots down, preferably a few miles away? This is a Lexus.”

His life hung by the most fragile of threads, but I was almost paralyzed by Ashley’s presence. She arose from the car, discerned my bearing and brushed me off like dandruff from her silk sheathed shoulder, her face looking skyward, the scene viewed down her regal nose of nobility. Just last week I refused to make love because she was wired on crack cocaine. How things change in seven days. I said, “You almost killed me back there. I was driving the speed limit and you barreled around me like an idiot . . . doing at least 80 miles per hour.”

“Yeah, this baby hugs those curves. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t remember seeing you. Now go to your job and tell them to issue new shirts because that one if fucking ugly as sin: puke green.”

My hands were trembling in torturous anger. He was one hair from death but I stayed outwardly calm, inside a tornado of madness brewed. I said, “Ashley. What are you doing with this fool?”

I hit a nerve. He spun around and asked, “You know this guy Ashley?”

“No. I’ve never seen him before. How do you know my name? Honey, I’m scared.”

Oh that bitch. I can’t believe she did that.

He wrapped his arms around her and they kissed. I sharply attack, “So dude, enjoy that kiss? So . . . how does my dick taste? Yeah she knows me. We lived together for two years up until last week. Her mother’s name is Rhonda and father’s is James. She has a heart tattoo just above her muff.”

He was steamed in turmoil, but scared as he saw the fire of sadistic violence in my eyes. He said, “Stay away from us. I would kick your ass, but I don’t want to get my hands dirty from your low class filth.”

I pointed at my skull, “You remember this face. You remember this piece-of-shit red truck. I’m going to get you when you least expect it. It might be five years from now. I promise you, when you die, this will be the last face you ever see.”

As I walked off I noticed a blue bumper sticker that read No Fear. Ashley glanced back at me, her eyes almost saying I’m sorry. Tears rolled down my face. I really had loved her and tried to help. I wasn’t rich enough to buy her $300.00 panties, but she knew I did all I could. I gave her everything I possibly could. It just wasn’t enough.

Friday Night June 3, 2005

Selena was perhaps too wild for me and I too wild for her, a combustible mixture of incendiary passion. I was nice, but a hair-trigger anger complex—unpredictable and psychotic—especially with guys. I treated women like gold and would die to protect them. If you wanted to survive, better turn your head away when I’m with her.

We parked on the beach in my piece-of-shit red truck, smoking marijuana and steaming the windows with heated passion, hands in dark places, sinful faces. She took a massive gulp of Wild Turkey and shared it with a kiss, hot liquor fuming from our throats, wet tongues engrafted in lust.

She took her top off and said, “Fuck me. Right here. Right now.”

Luckily I had a wide bench seat, ugly and gray, but useful. And so we as she wanted fucked. No love. Just she and I quelling an unquenchable scorching itch.

The Coliseum Parking Lot

We arrived half dressed and partially satisfied, though our wicked hunger still thrived. We smoked more weed and drank more whiskey—a good buzz ensued. She said, “We’ll need this,” and dumped a gargantuan pile of crystal methamphetamine on the back of my Ozzy Osbourne Blizzard of Oz CD case.

“Sounds good to me.” I played with her breasts as she pulverized chemical substrates into fine dust. “You are so hot Selena.”

She  wedged out two colossal lines and rolled up a twenty, a makeshift snorting apparatus. “Don’t worry, we can fuck again after the show, all night long.”

“Jeez I feel like a male whore. I don’t normally do—”

“Shut the fuck up Bob. What? You don’t normally fuck on the first date? You wanna lose your chances, just keep bullshitting. You almost sound like a brokenhearted wuss. Don’t tell me you’re more than a piece of meat. You have feelings,” she giggles in high pitched tones.

“I was joking.”

We feverishly kissed again, my priapism throbbing, her panties soaked. The words we just fucked tattooed across our brazen foreheads, two mindless sluts satisfying endless animalistic desire. I snorted the fat line of meth as scorching fire ingressed betwixt my nostrils, bitter chemistry drizzling down my throat.

“Jesus Christ, what was that? An entire gram?”

“Praise the good lord it was. No worries, I have an eightball in my purse.”

In the parking row before us, I saw a silver Lexus with a No Fear bumper sticker in blue. Just what the doctor ordered.

The Britney Spears Concert

Not that I’m into Britney or the opening act, The Pussy Cat Dolls, but I liked a coliseum packed with women. I felt like a gladiator. We passed through security without being searched, a perk of her working there. We were throttled and wired with high voltage highness. I was so high, I couldn’t feel floor beneath my feet. We missed the Pussy Cat Dolls and were just in time. The lights dimmed.

Britney Spears Concert Killers

Britney Spears Concert Killers

Selena said, “I have to piss. Wait here and I’ll be back in a minute.”

Perfect. A window to find that fool . . . Ashley’s fiancé. I knew how Ashley was, always in charge even if the guy was rich. She was the queen of narcissism and I knew no man could break her pattern. I could sense their presence just ahead in the darkened crowd. Britney opened with In The Zone. Oh how I hated that over-produced lip-synced musical drive. The girl looked dosed on Xanax and liquor and can’t sing anyway. She did look scrumptious in her skin tight black jumpsuit.

I see Ashley meandering through the crowd behind me, assuming she just came back from the restroom. I mentally formed a B-line trajectory and pinpointed his location with precision long before she found him.

Britney ended her first song and slurred, “How y’all doin’ Biloxi Mississippi?” then blasted into a sloppy Oops I Did It gain.

There he was, still with that stupid smirk, wearing a freaking suit to a Britney Spears concert. What a dufus. I approached like a ninja, heart chemically pounding like a cardiac jack hammer, palms sweaty, urge surmounting. I unsheathe my blade which is coated in unreflective black Teflon to remain clandestine. I stood right behind him, so close I could smell the stench of his putrid cologne Eternity For Men. I hate that odor—like Wrigley’s Juicy-Fruit Gum on steroids.

In my masterful periphery I studied the crowd’s faces, instinctively knowing where all witness eyes focused. A quick head turn and the micro-window was at hand. My razored knife soared with god-like exactitude as I stepped beside him, his eyes laser locked on my face as my finger pointed to my skull. I screamed remember this face—he read my lips—blade slipping silently betwixt two young girls. A powerful incision, ear to ear, sliced deep to spine. I pulled it back so quickly the blood twirled from steel spattering the hairy bare leg of a rabid Britney fan, clean and unstained knife re-sheathed all within one second.

I turned to see Selena, a vicious intensity in her eyes. We were the only people not watching the concert. She was oblivious to my awareness. I saw her blade thrust forward like a cobra strike, slicing the back of his neck, cleaving spinal cord and finishing the circumference of my initial cut. Was this the hurt she’d planned all along? Like me, she slung her razored edge blood free and re-sheathed it in the brim of her jeans. Her eyes converged with mine. She knew I knew she had cut the back of his neck—and winked at me.

His body twitched in vulgar fashion whilst head slid from neck, a pristine wound with flat cut surface, our killing strokes enjoined in love. She jumped on entwining her legs around me, tongues twirling together. Our stares turned to him in time to catch the first heartbeat of excitement, a geyser of blood squirted, Britney throated the words Hit Me Baby—a thunderstorm of scarlet drenched the crowd as they roared in approval. It was spectacular, magnanimous and brilliant. A relevant killing. The crowd thought it part of the show as his carcass fell, a lifeless lump, trampled beneath a thousand dancing feet.

We maddeningly kissed, my groping hands squeezing her tight ass against my loins. She placed her lips to my ear and said, “I saw you cut him first. What a coincidence: to kill the same victim simultaneously in perfect harmony.”

Ashley tripped on his decapitated head, falling in his viscid blood pool, her $3000.00 snow white Gucci dress splattered in red.

“We were meant to be together Selena!”

“Oh my God . . . your ex is Stephen’s fiancé? How fucking cool is that? I’ve planned his murder for three years. He raped and beat me half to death. I owed him.”

She lowered my jeans and we frenetically humped while standing, making love before all eyes, Britney singing an energetic version of Hit Me Baby One More Time.

We left the concert unquestioned and unsuspected . . . throbbing from all the excitement.

  • This story is partially true; however, I have never killed anyone. Or it’s probably completely comprised of 100% fiction . . . maybe.
  • Selena and I had an intense sexual relationship for three more months until some insane escaped convict crushed her skull with a ball peen hammer outside Buddy’s Lounge behind the dumpster on September 9th, 2005. She was probably squatting to urinate–not lady like–but I loved her anyway.
  • Ashley’s fiancé, Stephen Johnson, was announced murdered, decapitated by one psychopath. Two Vietnamese witnesses claimed to see a young dark haired woman cut him from behind, but couldn’t describe her face.
  • Ashley became a crack whore and prostitute. She died of a cocaine overdose in March 2008 in an alley in downtown New Orleans. Just another dead harlot in the nation’s murder capital.
  • Eight days after Selena’s murder, I won $10,000.00 in the Beau Rivage Casino. That’s karma. Selena loving me from beyond the grave. Thanks baby:)
  • Selena’s killer was executed by lethal injection on this celebratory day January 25th. He murdered my true soul mate. May she party in Hell until I join her.

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Angel Dusted Delirium

Jan 13

Posted by Bobby Revell in horror, transgressional fiction

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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Forgotten Slabs of Nothingness

Dec 12

Posted by Bobby Revell in horror, short-story

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

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.

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Cliché and Bubbles

Dec 8

Posted by Bobby Revell in short-story

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!

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The Starbucks MMO Blogger Killer

Nov 17

Posted by Bobby Revell in horror, transgressional fiction

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

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

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

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

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.

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My Crying Flower

Nov 13

Posted by Bobby Revell in poetry, short-story

I mindlessly soared across the astral vortex, without purpose, without fear and without debility, the totality of consciousness as my guide. Fully aware of my dream the previous thirty-seven times, this one is no exception. I usually wake up before diving into the whirlpool of continuum, but not this time. The whirling, seething particles felt both alive and tractable, my innards affluxing towards the convergence.

I was hurled like a comet, splattering across tinctured sanguine horizons, twirling madness bursting through the cleft of eternity. I was violently hammered into myself. My flesh peeled by solar winds while crystalline ice frosted my thoughts, fragmenting my essence. There was no terminus. The journey was not one of external voyage, but of inward ambiguity. Had I found something powerful, consequential or revolutionary? Was this but random neural firing, an electrical overload betwixt my axons and dendrites, the chemical constructs of dreaming? I was absolutely awake inside my dream. I was touching, it seemed, the very fabric of time/space.

I stood on a perpetual slabs of blackness, an empty vacuum of desolation. I traversed the mountains of madness, floating in my still pool of serenity. It stands to reason all things have an opposite or reflective contradiction. I have long sought this mirrored reality, the antithesis of what is.

Across the astral fluxion of churning kaleidoscopia, stratified layers of multitudinous flowers bloomed in maddening arrays of luminescence. Liquid aroma washed my soul—iced perfumes of netherworld delectation—beautiful crimson waterfalls lavished my dreams as I fell into oblivion. Endless existences of flowered red, silken rainbow petals in silver storms, tornadoes of ice and fires of cardinal rain.

My Crying Flower

My Crying Flower

My velocity quieted into slowness as I was drawn forward, a pinpoint of brilliantly ripened vermilion, a single flower so red, so perfectly alive . . . yet so alone. I leaned forward to smell its endless beauty, to inhale its intoxicating vapors, its hypnotic secret of scarlet dreams. My desire to pick this flower was unbearable, unfathomable and surmounting.

I grasped it’s stem with powerful intent. It cried in florid pain. It spoke to me in psychic tongues–its fiery tentacles shrouding my soul; veiled in rubescent shimmer. It sobbed do not sacrifice me. A billow of icy tears drizzled in cool rush, interleaving my warm fingers.

It was my flower.

My crying flower.

I am truly thankful to have the ability of lucid dreaming. Some call it astral projection, out of body experience and many other terminologies. I know not why or how, but it is majestic and beautiful. My favourite colour is red. Though it is somewhat dark, it is also strangely beautiful, exciting, intoxicating and wicked. I always find the potency of fiery scarlet in my dreams. I wish everyone could see what I see.

*The flower picture is from Blusti.

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Superglue Psycho

Oct 30

Posted by Bobby Revell in horror, short-story

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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