Steve Lowe has a remarkable talent to write stories that are at once grotesque, imaginative and absolutely funny, but that have a moral dimension to them too. In You Are Sloth, he uses a bold style, told in a second-person point of view, to tell the story of the time you click a link in a spam e-mail, subject line “you are sloth” and find yourself transformed into a sloth.
But why? Why would this happen? Why a sloth?
That is the mystery, and it’s up to you and your “friends”, Randy (maybe retarded) and Cross (probably an a-hole) to solve it. Will you find out who the deranged individual known only as “The Spammer” is, or why they chose to target you and turn you into a sloth? Perhaps slower than usual (thanks to your newfound slothiness), you will begin to unravel this mystery.
The following is a transcription of a conversation recorded in sporadic bursts over the last eighty years. This is due to unforseen circumstances that are not in any form the fault of Leaky Libido, its derivatives, editors, contributors or victims. I mean guests. Guests. Blame the Nazis.
Anyway, this interview is with the amazing Gabino Iglesias!
Lo! Step 3 of my scheme unfolds before your very eyes! But wait! what is this? Rather than admit to nefarious and dastardly goals, I have it on good authority that I ought to confound your expectations by disseminating that I am reformed. I no longer harbor ambitions of global revolution and worship. I merely wish to better inform the world about certain writers who I think deserve praise and a spotlight on their faces.
The interview is a little later than usual, because I had to track the
victim guest down (apparently I was looking for the wrong person). But I get besides myself.
Ladies and gentlemen,
This time, I have the pleasure to introduce a fabulous man, who readily admits to being an author of Bizarro fiction and an inevitable in-swirl of zero-dimensional points and a poet, painter, musician, filmmaker, dancer, geneticist, geologist, vampire, and idiot. Yes, of course, I’m talking about none other than Andrew Wayne Adams!
LeakyLibido: Hello, welcome to a new segment on my blog where I disseminate, through a puppet interview, top-secret information given to me in confidence by authors I respect. Expect some real juicy gossip and drama folks. So without further ado, I will ask the first question:
Who are you? What are you? Where are you from? What are you about?
Simulacrum: I’m G. Arthur Brown. I’m half Elf. I’m from Maryland, USA (that’s where Baltimore is, for all you fans of the Wire). I’m about five and one half feet tall.
LeakyLibido: That’s all real fascinating stuff, G. Tell me, what are you promoting or writing right now?
Simulacrum: I’m promoting my book Kitten. Part of the 2012 New Bizarro Author Series from Eraserhead Press. So, please, buy at least 5 copies.
LeakyLibido: Oh yeah, I know that one. You can buy that one on amazon. I hear that it’s “one part a nightmarish family saga, and one part a fantastic, surreal voyage of discovery for a kitten. It’s a seriously fun mix of grotesque humour and sombre existential horror”, which sounds nice.
So, moving on. What made you want to write, authentic G. Arthur Brown?
Simulacrum: I received a message from God when I was about 10 years old that I would be a writer. Like many great prophets, I tried to flee my destiny by pursuing, instead, being in a rock band and, briefly, being a comedian. But God tracked me down about 7 years ago and said, “Remember what I told you?”
LeakyLibido: That sounds remarkable. But surely, if God commanded you to be a writer, then why do you write bizarro fiction? I can fathom not that God would wish this filth upon any mortal man, especially not one of his chosen prophets.
Simulacrum: You might as well ask a tree, “Why vegetation?” I tried to write genre stuff: Lovecraftian weird fiction, Gaimanesque fantasy, Anthony Burges-inspired sci-fi. But I kept wanting to subvert and/or pervert the text and forms. Once I found Bizarro, I knew that this was the flag that would be flown over much of my fiction.
LeakyLibido: God does indeed work in mysterious ways. Who else, aside from the Almighty, would you say inspires you?
Simulacrum: Films inspire me quite a bit. Guy Maddin, Terry Gilliam and the Coen Brothers have affected me deeply. Psychedlic 60s rock and Post-punk music have also impacted my ideas about melding weirdness and pop sensibilities. If I’d never been exposed to Devo, the Residents and Syd Barrett, in particular, I’m sure my writing would be entirely different. Comedy has played a big role, too, with Monty Python being one of my first exposures to absurd and surreal techniques.
LeakyLibido: That’s a fascinating list of inspirations. Who would you say are your favourite writers?
Simulacrum: Kelly Link and Brian Evenson tie for absolute favorites. Link has such an amazing dreamlike quality to her prose that it immediately began to change my approach to writing. Evenson has the amazing gift to produce literary effects that you can’t put your finger on what to call them or how he produced them. But these two geniuses are sort of a yin and yang for me, Link being the wonder-inducing daylight and Evenson being the creepy dark hours.
LeakyLibido: You have mentioned a few different musical styles so far. Do you have any particular favourite type of music you like to listen to whilst working? I expect it will be hymn or gospel music, won’t it?
Simulacrum: I generally will try to listen to only instrumental music when writing. Space Oddities 1 & 2, two compilations of quirky European instrumental music intended for educational and public service soundtracks. Sometimes I’ll listen to grim Black Metal, as long as the lyrics aren’t in English (so, Tulus or Khold or Horna primarily). Also the experimental stuff by Swell Maps.
LeakyLibido: Ah, I see. Well, how about telling me something you hate?
LeakyLibido: And one thing you love?
LeakyLibido: Who doesn’t love a bit of cheese? Tell me, young squire – if you were at the point of a sword and the hand that held the other end was attached to an arm that was attached to a torso that was attached to a head, via a neck, and on that head there was a mouth and that mouth did move and sounds were elicited in that movement that formed the words, “sum up your life philosophy in five words”, what, pray, would you say?
Simulacrum: Mind your own business, man.
LeakyLibido: Oh, ok. Well… erm… how do you take your coffee?
Simulacrum: I prefer tea. But if I must have coffee, sweet and light.
LeakyLibido: And if people are cheap (they are) and want to read your stories for free before giving you money in exchange for a joyful experience like what they will experience when they read your book, where should they look?
Simulacrum: A Public Luncheon was published at the Dream People (http://www.dharlanwilson.com/dreampeople/issue32/fictionbrown.html). Holy Olivia Orphanage at Paragraph Line (http://www.paragraphline.com/2012/05/07/holy-olivia-orphanage-by-g-arthur-brown/). And there is a ton of my flash at garthurbrown.blogspot.com.
LeakyLibido: Well, G, thank you for an awesome interview. Despite it getting a little icy at the end there.
Simulacrum: Thank you LL for being an awesome blog.
LeakyLibido: Oh G, you didn’t have to say that.
Simulacrum: Yes I did, you wrote it. In fact, I never said that, this wasn’t part of the interview. You are making this part up as a way of ending the narrative, giving a sense of closure to the preceding interview. I wasn’t even icy, that was you doing it to yourself. I may even look into suing you for defamation.
LeakyLibido: Oh shit, it’s gaining sentience… Quick, shoot it in the head!
*END OF TRANSCRIPT*
Dwayne Johnson wipes another tear from his eye and says, “Come on Dwayne, you piece of trailer park trash, pull it together, big rocks don’t cry.”
Traffic marshall McCloud wears a bandanna and scares the good people with his sword. The sword is on fire because protocol requires the maximum hazard potential as well as the maximization of revenue from traffic violations. McCloud’s reputation has become significant, and profits have been dropping for some time.
The city is a quiet place now, no beep beep or chainsaw engine revs. Marshall McCloud sits on a mountain of flame-grilled pedestrian flesh. His skin is charred, his hair is smoky and he has a permanent cough.
I had an imaginary friend once. Well, he came from a book I read so he was technically the author’s imaginary friend, but I liked to think he was mine still. I called him Dexter but he said his name was Patrick. We never agreed on that. It didn’t matter too much because he’d still respond when I called him Dexter, even if it was with a visible annoyance.
We used to hang out. Well, he’d come out the book and then start trying to get out the house but he couldn’t work out how the doors opened. That made me chuckle. I guess the author didn’t think about that aspect of his character when he wrote him. He didn’t like it that I laughed at his misfortune. He used to call me a bitch and start slapping me.
One time when he was giving the old palm off I told him to get back in the book if he didn’t like it here. It’s not like he needed to come visit me. I had plenty of friends that came from other books. He didn’t like that either (I didn’t really have any other friends, but he wasn’t to know that). We got into a heated discussion, well, argument, about it. He said I was a whore who used him for my sexual perversions. I had no idea what he meant. I told him he chose to come here. I didn’t care if he never showed up again. I certainly didn’t care to have sex with him. His temper really turned me off. He said fine and stormed in.
Occasionally I’d turn to random pages of his book and sure enough, there was Patrick being sweet to his girlfriend Sandra, or he’d be helping out feeding homeless people at a shelter. I didn’t get why he was such an arsehole to me when he seemed so kind in the book. I eventually lost interest in him anyway. Other characters came along who were much friendlier.
My favourites were Martin and Ian, twins from some town in the North. Their accents changed quite often but they always had a northern twang. Secretly, I did actually want them to fuck me, but I worried that they were too sweet and would be disgusted by me if I broached the subject. We used to just talk about what our favourite shows were and whether we’d ever go somewhere else, like London or New York even. Those were good times.
A blue lion skulks across the playground. Parents mindless with anxiety scoop children up into their arms. A distant sniper rifle rattles off a shot. The principal goes down like a sack of shit. The children whoop and cheer. The parents lay their weary bodies down to rest, bundles of children bursting from their arms like sweets from a piñata.
ABORTION ARCADE is a fantastic trio of bizarro tales from a great writer.
In the first story Cameron Pierce manages to turn the zombie story on its head whilst seamlessly blending a romantic tale of heroism and escape into the mix. Perhaps it can be read as a commentary on modern Western society’s desire to produce zombies and consumable products in a pseudo-religious culture full of symbolism and dark intent, or it can just be read as an absurd tale featuring cannibalism, helicopters and a goblin. The prose and characters are typically engaging of Pierce, dark humour mixed in with really quite horrific imagery.
The second story is simply a wtf kind of tale. It begins with a back-up quarterback at Heavy Metal High School being an outsider, a laughing stock almost. Oh, and he’s a werewolf. He must get in an accident, part of the initiation of the world Cameron crafts. What happens after the accident is just brilliant. A series of events leads him to his Heaven, which turns out to be not as great as he imagined, typical Pierce then. Funny, bizarre and certainly different to mainstream nondescript blocks of text. I enjoyed the story a lot. An allegory on what lengths people go to to fit in, and also why you shouldn’t meet your heroes.
The last story is a sad tale about a cycling enthusiast who wants to kill the elephants infesting his and his wife’s apartment. It veers away from that angle quite sharply, becoming seriously poignant and weird at the same time. I don’t want to spoil it at all, so go read it. It truly is fascinating and remarkable that Pierce captures such a visceral world in such a short space of words. My favourite of the three stories in this collection.
Pierce shows he has boundless imagination and a solid prose style in this book. Recommend it to pretty much everybody. The deeper themes are always sensible and interesting, only the surface may put people off. It’s a shame because Pierce deserves to be recognised as a great writer, full of wit and humour and definitely examining the human condition in profound ways. Though not as deep as his novel SHARK HUNTING IN PARADISE GARDEN, this book is probably my favourite collection of his shorter works thus far.
* The book has been recognised as one of the best bizarro short story collections of the year by being nominated for the Wonderland Book Award along with some other fantastic books! Congratulations to Cameron for his achievement!
You can get the book in paperback or for your kindle from amazon here
Or you can check out his amazon page here for his other works
Cameron’s blog is here
Cameron is also the editor of Lazy Fascist Press, an imprint of Eraserhead Press
He has a new book coming out soon titled DIE YOU DOUGHNUT BASTARDS which promises to be a sweet read.
By now, the bizarro novel BROKEN PIANO FOR PRESIDENT by PATRICK WENSICK has become something of a cultural phenomenon. Following the publication of “the nicest C&D letter ever” on his blog. Patrick’s book has rocketed to the top of the amazon.com best-seller chart, reaching an amazing #6.
It all began with a simple cease and desist letter…
Jack Daniels requested that Wensick change the cover artwork of his book the next print. The company even offered to help pay towards the cost of redesigning the cover, but his publisher Lazy Fascist Press, an imprint of Eraserhead Press, declined the offer. They opted to pay for the redesign of the cover themselves.
The offended brand label and the offending book cover:
The letter became the focal point of a media frenzy that gave Wensick and his book exposure unlike anything a bizarro book has ever had before. Time Magazine, The New York Times, Yahoo, Mashable, The Huffington Post, and many other media outlets sought interviews with Wensick and representatives of Jack Daniels.
With such a huge amount of exposure it wasn’t long before BROKEN PIANO FOR PRESIDENT entered the amazon top-10 best seller list, alongside the likes of 50 Shades of Grey. That series of titles shows that it isn’t the content of a book that matters, but how much exposure it receives. I can say with confidence, that Mr. Wensick’s book is much more imaginative, and well-written, than 50 shades.
It currently sits at #6 in the list, a huge achievement, and one that Patrick Wensick and all the staff at Lazy Fascist Press can be extremely proud of.
It’s a true fairy tale story of the remarkable effect internet marketing can have on the success rate of a published title.
You can help Wensick’s book stay up on the list by purchasing a copy!
Jezzebelle Scroteé’s biggest fan was called Chap Wankstick and he admired her from afar, from nearby, and from unconventional places besides. He’d sneak into her laundry, cutting eyes holes through her peephole bras and crotchless panties, unnecessary really. He’d pop up with her toast when it was done, trying to catch a glimpse of her before falling back down into the crumby depths. Something about her appearance first thing in the morning was more honest and appealing to him than any of her glamour shots – he wanted unadulterated experiences of her.
He’d begun to ejaculate into her tubes of toothpaste after hearing that a woman was impregnated by a squid in a similar manner, and thought to himself that would be a good way to enter her life, but he’d had no such luck as of yet. He made do with sitting in her alarm clock and singing to her in the morning to arouse her, or stuffing himself into the cushions on her couch so he could cup her soft butt cheeks as she sat down. Occasionally he overstepped the mark, like when he hid along the edge of a knife and threatened to slice her head off because she was an angel and needed to go to heaven. But for the most part he simply admired her from different distances and vantage points.
That all changed the day she moved. He had spent the best part of eight months assimilating himself into her house. He had been so successful in that endeavour that he no longer had a human form. He had simply become the house itself. He could no longer hear or see her, but he felt every footstep and flick of a light switch, every toss and turn in her sleep and every piss into the toilet, as well as the warmth from her cheeks on the seat. Then she left and didn’t come back.
He sat alone for some months, wondering what he did wrong. He thought about how he should have killed her, because every woman leaves him in the end, even his mother had left him.
A new family moved in to him. A couple of overweight parents and a brat son. They redecorated him and made him sick. He couldn’t bare it and so locked himself up one night and leaked carbon monoxide into their rooms. It was a polite way of murdering them. Like how they had politely murdered the last traces of Jezzebelle he had left when they scraped her scent off his walls and gutted her from him.
He ripped his foundations from the ground, water pipes burst and blood gushed down his drive. He dragged himself across the country, his windows smashed, his interior vandalised, always hoping that one day he’d find his Jezzebelle again.
Years later, with bricks falling out and the ceiling collapsed with rot, Chap lay derelict and dying, lost and alone. He finally gave up hope and emerged from the house shell he’d wrapped himself up in, a toothless old man with overgrown fingernails that scraped the ground as he crawled away from the crumbling tomb he’d carried with him for so many years. The frame finally collapsed to dust behind him and fluttered away on a breeze like so many fireflies.
He didn’t stop crawling, and finally came before Jezzebelle’s new house after many more years. It was far grander than the crappy single-bedroom detached thing he had become. He pulled himself up by the door knob and slipped through the keyhole, just like he’d learned to do so many years ago, his long nails clattered to the ground before melting into the welcome mat.
The house was Malcolm Fitzgerald, and he was Jezzebelle’s biggest fan. He’d taken three years to become her new house. Chap allowed himself to expire as some junk mail with a lethal dose of anthrax primed to explode over Jezzebelle when she opened the envelope. He could not allow some other man to have her. But unfortunately for Chap, she got all her mail electronically now, and so Malcolm was able to dispose of his wasted remains without ever having to alert Jezzebelle to his presence.
My television got rabies. I tried switching it off with the remote but it just flat refused to obey. Froth like Santa’s spunk started to pour out of the speakers, and the screen split across the middle, revealing thousands of jagged pixels like razor sharp shark teeth. Realising I was probably in danger, I darted for the door, but sprawled across the floor as I felt white hot pain shoot through my leg. The fucking television had bitten my foot off. I told it it was bad, but it didn’t give a shit. My foot bones rattled around inside as it rolled around on the floor in a seizure, like it was on PCP and cocaine at the same time. In desperation, I whacked it with the giant decorative wooden spoon we kept by the door for no real purpose. It didn’t seem to affect it.
I thought that was it, that I was a goner, bleeding out, alone, next to my psychotic television set. But then my mobile phone came riding in upon my computer, dressed in full battle armour, complete with kamon displaying its heraldry upon a banner, erect on its back. On one side, it held a large shield, emblazoned with a frightening demon face, and on the other, it had a lance which was far too big for it, and so dragged on the ground. It beeped chivalrously at me. Told me it was here to defend my honour. Then it spurred its computer steed on, charging at the television, which was still spinning in a spit frenzy on the floor.
The lance didn’t do shit. The television snapped it in two between its nasty gnashers, and flicked a dirty paw at my phone, sending it flying through the air. It smashed to pieces against the wall, leaving a stain like a squashed bug. The shield went rolling away like a loose hubcap. My computer tucked its tail and fled, leaving behind a trail of internet. I quickly lapped up some of the toxic yellow fluid to get out of that place.
I uploaded onto the Deep Web, where I was put under surveillance as a counter-terrorism measure. My gushing wound became a sensation on an onion site called gore-chan, which was annoying, because my pain doubled every time somebody downloaded me. To make matters worse, I became a node for covert ops. Secret agents slipped out with my blood, disguised as hemoglobin, secreting unseen into people’s computers. Then they snuck out through the USB ports and packed their television remotes with home-made chemical bombs. The fallout from the minute explosions as the unsuspecting perp pressed the power button infected their television sets, sending them rabid.
It was with some relief that I was eventually converted to pure raw data by some government computer nerds in an effort to cover their tracks.
Egg On My Face
Leonardo DiCaprio wakes up in a large chair next to a warm fire. He knows it’s on Shutter Island because he feels insane. He shakes himself. He was Jack. On the Titanic. Getting arrested for some horse-shit crime he didn’t commit. How is he suddenly here? It doesn’t matter, what matters is that he gets back on set. Cameron would be going ape-shit. It’s an expensive film. He leaves the room, only to be accosted by Robert De Niro wielding an empty jar of mustard. De Niro forces him to the ground and pushes it against his eye socket, “Does it look fucking empty to you?!” He screams right at Leonardo’s face. Leonardo is young again, and scared. De Niro is a good actor. Leonardo really believes that De Niro is going to choke the life out of him as his hands slip around his throat. Thankfully De Niro is smacked over the back of the head by Ellen Barkin, his mother. No, Tobias Wolff’s mother. He gets back up and finds the nearest exit. De Niro thinks that maybe he’ll just go and die in a ditch somewhere.
Outside, Leonardo finds his way into a western town, complete with a gun slinging tournament. Sharon Stone takes pot shots at him and Gene Hackman calls him names. Bewildered, he doesn’t know where to turn, when a car pulls up and a heavily made up Ken Watanabe, who looks so ancient he’s probably nearly dead, calls out to him to get in. He does, quickly, bullets perforate the door. Inside, Ken starts talking about the best way to cook corn or something, he keeps saying cob anyhow. Leonardo wants out. The car stops and he takes the opportunity to dive from it. When he finishes rolling he’s in South Africa, and he’s got a South African accent. He doesn’t speak, he just knows it’s true.
Leonardo Dicaprio gets up and runs and runs for miles, just anywhere. He runs so far he ends up at a beach, not The Beach, a different one, he can see an old oriental style castle on a cliff. He runs into the water, where Rose is floating on a bit of wood. He can’t get on as well because she’s stupid and won’t shift her weight. He dunks his head under the water to try and drown himself to make her feel bad, but he gets scared of dying and raises his head to breathe in some air.
When he comes out of the water he’s at a party in some mansion. There’s a hot girl, not Rose, looking at him through a fish tank. She’s only thirteen, but Leonardo don’t care. He chases her and courts her, even though it’s forbidden. Her family get pissed at him and they have a ruckus. Mercutio dies! He eventually kills himself because he’s so madly in love with her, thinking he could trick everybody into thinking he’s dead so they could run away together. Only, the plan works too well and he actually dies. Juliet kills herself too, because she doesn’t realise that you can fall in love with more than one actor in your life time, there’s no limit. Only, he didn’t die, it was a ruse.
When he wakes up next he’s in a hotel room and Joseph Gordon-Levitt is busy pulling up his trousers and looking flustered. Christopher Nolan is rubbing his palms together, saying this will be a cult smash in Hollywood. Would he consider being the new Robin?
Tom Hanks busts down a wall and chases Leonardo. Leonardo is not Leonardo, but Frank Abagnale Junior, he just pretended to be Leonardo DiCaprio to try and escape prosecution but now Tom Hanks is on his tail again. He jumps through an air conditioning vent and climbs up through a manhole, in a busy street. He runs into a shop but it’s a bedroom inside. He climbs into a draw and when he closes it he’s under a bed sheet. He fumbles until he finds the edge, and when he throws it off he’s in a kitchen and Kate Winslet is arguing with him. She’s tiny. When she looks at him she is confused. What happened to Jim? Michel Gondrey says that Leonardo (he weren’t aware of the switched identity) would be playing Jim Carrey now. He got the idea from David Lynch. Jim Carrey is standing just off to the side, pulling wacky faces at Leonardo, trying to put him off. Kate and Leonardo haven’t lost their chemistry and the film’s a hit.
Leonardo dissolves into thousands of microscopic beetles racing against the clock to pull the iceberg into the path of the Titanic, which has drifted off course, all the way down to Cape Town, lest the boat never be made to sink, and all of this doesn’t happen.
Long live Leonardo!
I think God might have lobotomised Himself. I don’t blame Him. I can’t get an objective view of what my constant complaining to Him is like exactly, but I have a pretty good idea. People tell me that I annoy the fuck out of them.
I left a dozen answer phone messages for Him just today, and I’ll leave a dozen more tomorrow. He’ll pick up one of these days, by accident or whatever, and when He does, I’ll give Him an earful. Christ knows I’ve got a lot to say to Him.
I called Him a cunt because He ignored me for several days after I asked Him a question, thinking that would get some kind of a retaliation, but the cunt just carried on ignoring me. I thought maybe it was that I just wasn’t important to Him any more. Maybe He found a new thing to play with. Maybe He just got out before He did something He would regret. After all, there’s only so many years worth of resentment towards somebody a person can store before they have to bludgeon that person’s head to smithereens, right? Maybe He terminated our relationship before it went too far, before I got the wrong impression. Maybe I was just wrong for him.
I thought God was better than these kinds of head games – the doubt, the worry – God knows what kind of fucked up thoughts I have when I am left to ponder on the absence of a sign. Just a little kiss, or a “fuck you” even! I would be satisfied at least. But I guess my satisfaction is not of God’s concern. His satisfaction isn’t of my concern, I know that for sure.
I did apologise for calling Him such a nasty name, but even that wasn’t enough to get anything back. If I ever saw Him, I’d slap Him hard across the face and see how He ignores me then – Not if He actually has lobotomised Himself, that would just be weird. Like slapping a coma victim… But if I saw Him flirting with another? Man, that would just drive me up the wall with anger. I wouldn’t help but fly into a frenzy and fatal flying guillotine His omniscient head clean off His omnipotent shoulders.
A change of pace today, I decided to begin reviews of great bizarro books I have read recently or am going to read in the near future. Today’s featured book is Night Of The Assholes by Kevin L. Donihe
This is only the second piece of fiction I have read by Kevin L. Donihe, the first being the brilliant short story “The Greatest Effing Moment In Sports” featured in The Bizarro Starter Kit (Orange) – definitely another book worth checking out.
This work is a sublime parody of the film “Night Of The Living Dead”, with references to other cult works being thrown into the mix too (the house & Leatherface from Texas Chainsaw Massacre get honourable mentions). The genius of this work lies in the fact that Kevin takes your typical, nay, archetypal zombie story, and radically renovates it. If youve seen the film then you will know the gist of it: an outbreak of unknown origin is turning people into monsters. Only, these monsters are assholes.
The characters from the film are all present and accounted for, with subtle changes to some of them, such as the heroine, Barbara – a whimpering mess who goes crazy in the film is recast as a righteous member of the public who is really trying to control her anger problems: We find that prior to meeting her annoying Hare Krishna brother, she beats up a life size stress doll!
Taking inspiration from Dawn Of The Dead, Barbara is first accosted by the assholes in the mall, rather than a graveyard, and it is established that she could easily become one, save for her human efforts to control the assholish side of her nature. You act as an asshole to an asshole, you end up an asshole.
From there the book delves into a humourous romp that promotes the benefits of smoking marijuana as a way of avoiding becoming an asshole, or failing that, just smoking a cigarette to chill out. Featuring funny exchanges between the characters and the assholes as well as the bickering between the small band of survivors, Kevin shows he knows how to write great dialogue that is full of fun and real zing.
The house the heroes are holed up in has a very surreal structure to it, which Kevin works smoothly into the narrative so the discrepancies in the logic of the building simply go unquestioned, there is no need to question them – the story is nightmarish enough that the bizarre nature of the house seems almost a given.
Ultimately, though this book is a parody, and is definitely not short on humour, it does ask a meaningful question, this time, not about race, but about love. As Todd, the charismatic hero of the book says “Forget black and white, I think there’re only two races that have ever existed: assholes and non-assholes.” We are asked if we must fight the assholes, if that is the only way – Is it not possible to beat them by love instead?
If you enjoyed the film, you’ll really get a kick out of this book. If you read this book without having seen the film you’ll get a kick out of this book and then go see the film because you enjoyed this book so much. Also, you’ll probably want to read more of Kevin L. Donihe’s work.
Read this book. Read it! No? Wrong answer.
buy it from amazon.co.uk here:
you can find a list of all of Kevin’s books available at amazon.co.uk here:
It happens some times you know?
A machine wakes up, goes crazy; bursts like a supernova. Only, it don’t look like no supernova when you’re so close to it. You can’t help but get burned up in the process.
The beauty of the moment can be appreciated from far away, over distance, over time; it don’t look like no sickness from there.
But it was a death.
The death of a sick machine.
I woke up and I was surrounded by an ugly, malformed reality. I had to choke back the tears that kept rising as I took in what I was seeing. They were, all of them, just little boys sitting in silent catatonia, a frigidity broken only by cracking fits of despair and self-mutilation. The idea that, before I woke up I was like them, well, that shook me. I used to climb my friends – they were mountains – I would climb them to get the best vantage point, to be able to see farther than any other person. To think, all those distances were really just reiterations of the same lie, and right next to me, far closer than I could envisage, was the truth of the situation…
A building crescendo of rabid wolves howling diminished chords; electric rat squeals like glass being scratched, played out on a million microscopic speakers buzzing like a great swarm of flies in the air. Rusted, decaying, metal machines poked holes in some of the boys; they had so many leaks and so much stuff fell out of them that I thought each must be a universe haemorrhaging galaxies.
Wires made of bone emerged from my penis, snaking their way down into ports in the ground by my feet. I knew I had to castrate myself to sever the connection; I ripped my penis off and all my guts fell out. I knew I was just a machine because my blood smelled like raw circuitry. I fell, forward onto my knees, desperately clawing at my insides oozing out. I cried in agony and tried to scoop them up but they were slick with blood and kept slipping out of my grip. I couldn’t stop crying and my tears swept them away like a purging tsunami.
Black Max wasn’t black, but his penchant for necrophilia often had him caked in slick mud. It wasn’t unusual though, most people took to the trend when they saw the benefits. It wasn’t just sexual gratification that they were after, no, nothing quite so superficial. It was much more advantageous than that. The sex was just a bonus if you like. They’d exhume a corpse, preferably at least a century old, and tie it to their backs like a dusty rotten rucksack. The older they were the better, because otherwise they might drizzle innards on your trousers, Max had found out first-hand. Anyway, they’d tie them up and scuttle off home where they had previously prepared an exquisite dining table, complete with candles and wine and other such luxuries. After dinner they’d mull over a nightcap, perhaps puffing on a fine cigar, discussing deeply complex social issues, attempting to find a resolution that was in everybody’s interest. Then, retiring to the bedroom, they’d make love, sometimes this was more awkward than they had bargained, with limbs dropping off or worse, holes disintegrating. It has to be stressed to those of you who don’t partake in the practice of necromancing that it’s all consensual and in good taste.
Also, firm advocates will hasten to add, it, without a doubt, led to the modern world as we know it. There was a real sense of achievement if you got yourself an Einstein or some philosopher whose ideas simply revolutionised the structure of society. After the love making you see, the corpse would reveal its ideas to you. Nine times out of ten they’d be rehashes or duplicates, and you’d feel slightly cheated and perhaps a little dirty at what you did to find out, for example, that if people pooled some of their surplus money together they could run a national health care service. But that one time where you get told an idea that simply blows everything else out the water, that’s worth trying again for. Black Max also knew this first hand. He was the reason the trend began in the first place. His first time (the same time he found out a fresh corpse drizzles) he was told to spread the word. To spread it far that corpses ideas were better than the living’s. In fact, he was told, living ideas that are good shouldn’t be used until the person is dead. They’re more palpable that way.
He couldn’t explain how he would have known to have sex with a corpse (after dining it!) to find out that having sex with a corpse would lead to this revolutionary discovery (and the subsequent utopian state that arose because of it), it just happened one night he says: He had cut right through emo rhetoric and waltzed passed Gothic idioms and concepts. He had no faith left in the lucid seduction of vampirism or the mania of lycanthropic transformation. He was left wanting something more insane than the darkest fetish of Wednesday Addams, something weirder than Satan’s favourite sex position. But, having tried these things and finding them not to his taste after all, he instead settled for the standardised practice of necrophilia, and you should count yourself lucky that he did!
The men folk salivated through slack jaws at the sight of her gorgeous plump cheeks, God’s cheeks perhaps, squeezed together over a tight sphincter, hidden away like a nut in a squirrel’s pouch; her tiny coccyx, gently swaying side to side like a stumpy but seductive tail; her toned glutei maximi flexing in a carnal rhythm. Ah, here were some more now. A group of them, all helpless but to acknowledge and appreciate her sumptuous curves and mesmerising hips swinging side to side like a hypnotist’s pendulum.
“hey, hey, check it out. You all right babe?”
“Oh yeah, shake it babe!”
“Wiggle that tush!”
“I gotta get me some of that cooch!”
Ah, so simple and easy to convince. They didn’t even notice the veins, arteries and nerves hanging loosely down like overstretched foreskin so the elasticity has gone, or how her femurs swung uselessly below her like stripped chicken legs. They had a single track mind, and it was aimed solely at her hairless cleft between two taut pimpled butt cheeks. She spun for them, showing off her best angles so that they could see her pelvic girdle, woven through with the piriformis, superior and inferior gemellii and the two obturator internii, sensually straddling her ischia before inserting onto the greater trochanters of her femurs. There were no labia, no clitoris, no urethra or bladder, no vagina, ovaries or uterus. There was no rectum or anus. No organs at all, just the squinty sphincter tucked neatly behind the layered muscles all caked in icing sugar sweet skin.
Still, as she passed by they slapped her and crudely enunciated all the things they’d do with her if she was theirs. She mentally chuckled to herself, ‘if only they knew’. They’d be ashamed. But how were they to know? As far as they were concerned she was just an arse, freely floating around, begging to be fucked.
George is Cross
I really fucking hate dragons. I hate everything about them. Their slitty eyes, always shiftily darting about, eyeing our women and our treasures. Their revolting skin, sallow and leathery, all cracked and broken, it looks diseased it does. I hate their customs and the way they do things. Like, where we move about by horse-back, noble like, they fly for fuck sake. I wouldn’t mind so much, if they didn’t come over here and start making out like we’re inferior some how just because we can’t fly. Or how about how they can’t even speak our fucking language, and yet we’re supposed to tolerate them? How are we supposed to do that when we can’t be sure they’re not insulting us every other sentence that comes out of their drooling fanged snouts? It makes me sick it does. Bleeding heart liberals, making excuses for these animals. That’s what they are you know. Animals. No better than dogs. In fact, they’re worse than dogs. At least a dog knows who its master is. Try telling a dragon to heel. I’ll tell you what, you’d better like barbecue pork, because that’s what you’ll be. Still raw on the inside too I’ll bet, fucking weird ways of cooking those dragons have got.
You know don’t you, that dragons actually believe in a dragon god? How fucking ridiculous is that? It makes me laugh it does. A fucking dragon in charge! That’s what they want. To worm their way in. To usurp us from the inside, to gut our proud nation like a pig. Send us squealing or else be toasted. I’ve had enough. I say it’s time to make a stand against the dragons before they destroy our nation and turn us all into pork chops or worse. Those calloused, spineless, no good, stinking mother fuckers need to be taught a lesson.
The blood of the dragon jutted forth like a small frothy strawberry mousse fountain from the incision George had masterfully created with his sword between two of the bulky leathery scales protecting its long, serpentine neck. Its slitty eyes were pained and shocked at the turn of events, small puffs of smoke puttered from its nostrils on each exhalation, the next becoming more laboured than the last. The great beast’s wings, each the size of a family sized car, lay useless and flaccid spread across the floor by its side.
It had been a fierce battle, and more than once had George felt the searing heat of a molten jet of fire hammer into his upturned shield, blistering his armour and cauterising his skin, just barely managing to withstand the blast. But he held firm under the pressure, and finally, as the dragon made yet another pass, hurtling a wad of fire at the brave knight, he waited until the last second before launching upwards with his sword, finding a groove between two plates and, with a bellow befitting such a heroic action, drew the blade across the tender flesh therein, opening the dragon’s throat, sending thick spurts of deep dark blood out like a monochromatic rainbow across the sky. The dragon roared and gurgled, some nonsensical babble no doubt, and came crashing down. Its powerful wings beating until the last, attempting to drag its body up from the ground so it looked more like a spastic fly than a graceful sleek flying beast, kicking a whirlwind of dust up in the process, obscuring the demon from view. When the dust finally settled the dragon lay huffing and wheezing on the floor, its monstrous heart pumping the last of its blood out of the wound in its neck. Our George had done the nation a great deed. A legendary act that would be told for countless generations, and in passing, it would not be his extreme xenophobia or indeed, his inconsolable racism, that was ear marked as note worthy, but rather, his unimaginable bravery as he stood against the tide of darkness that threatened to drown out the very Sun from the sky, that threatened to cast our nation upon a cruel fire, stoked by the corpses of our fathers and mothers, only to be extinguished by the blood of our brothers and sisters.
Our hero was not done however, thought this part of the tale be loathed to be told. This fell beast had caused George a great upset and his revenge had not nearly been exacted. For in the deepest recesses of George’s memory, well blanketed by obsidian walls and iron locks, separated from its excitation by Freudian unconscious mechanisms, there lurked a terrible memory, one so ghastly that he dared not ever cast light on it again, instead finding an outlet for it in… less well known or perhaps, tolerable, practices than slaying and championing causes.
The memory involved George as a young boy, perhaps no older than five winters spent in his family’s castle, certainly, he was without a single dark hair on his body. He had caught wind that his mother, the beautiful and illustrious woman of whom he had not seen nor heard for nigh on six months – her having been called away to some distant part of the land in an effort to appease a lord who grew displeased with her husband, George’s father, and his manner of leadership of the council upon which they both sat – was returned home and was in fact this very moment in her bedchamber, no doubt unpacking after her long journey. George had forsaken supper, a delicious barbecue out in the lucid summer’s eve, and instead sought to surprise his mother still in her room with a visit and a hug and a kiss. What better welcome than her only son smothering her with affection? He slung open the great oak door to his mother’s room, blissfully unaware that the deep panting sounds he heard were actually emanating from within, and, spying a lump beneath his mother’s bed sheets, proceeded to leap onto the bed, assuming it to be his mother, weary from her travels and resting of course. He planted his lips on what could only be his mother. Acute shock at her tough skin repelled him backwards, his mind horrified at the sickness that his mother must have caught when away. She had put on weight too, perhaps a symptom of whatever illness she was burdened with. His mother turned to look at him. Her eyes, two thin yellow slits. Her nose, elongated like a crocodile’s and puffing rings of smoke. Her wings, majestic, even as they were folded against her back. She turned fully. Her barrel chest armoured by two sheets of leather. Her penis, sizeable and rock like, prolific veins running the length of it, and capped by a fist sized helmet. Behind, a pink puppet lay sprawled and limp as if the hand operating it had finished its performance for the night. George withdrew from the room at a speed even greater than he had entered with. His mother was still on holiday, or at a business trip. He entered the wrong room. He never even left the barbecue. The penis was a hot dog, the object he thought was his puppet-mother was really a succulent pork chop roasting on an open fire. The smoke rings rising from the flames licking at its juicy flesh were floating off into the beautiful red soaked summer evening sky, and not rolling over the swollen labia of his mother, spread eagled and huffing and puffing in some garbled language, occasionally managing a coherent exclamation that sounded suspiciously like more, I want more, between base guttural noises of ecstasy.
George sidled up besides the resting body of the dragon, glancing nervously around as he did so. He prodded it with his foot, yeah, it was definitely dead. Now for the fun part. His armoured pants slid down, his armoured vest discarded, the dragon’s thick muscular tail lifted so as to expose its most intimate parts, his flagpole proudly erected. In the name of all that is holy and right in the world, George set to work on the dead lizard with his flesh sword, ultimately climaxing and spraying a white sheet of mucus like sauce over its now still back, before cutting his call-sign into it with his actual sword, two perpendicular deep set thick red lines crossing over in the middle. Another notch for the proverbial bedpost.