Lurking in the working place
There is a man without a face
There is a man named Mr. Bright
Who never ever sleeps at night
Who has no need for any bed
He has a hatchet for a head

And though his shadow stalks these halls
And leaves its stain upon the walls
And though you feel a thrill of fear
Whenever Mr. B is near
It still may come as quite a shock
When it’s your time
When it’s your turn
When it’s your head
Upon the chopping block

Mr. Bright has come to rob you
Of your house and car and job
They brought him in to chop a little
He’s not paid to sit and whittle

It’s nothing personal, you see
It could be you or them or me
And he’s just got his job to do
Ohhhhhhh… the same as you

He’s got a big ol’ axe to grind
He’s got his eye on your behind
His teeth are little whirling blades
His hands aren’t hands—they’re hand grenades
His eyes are cold computer chips
His ears aren’t ears—his lips aren’t lips

But if you try to buy him drinks
And find out what he really thinks
Remember, he’s still watching you
And he’s still got his job to do
He’s got his own desires and needs
And many many
Many many
Many many
Many mouths to feed

Mr. Bright has come to take you
By the hand and drive a stake right
Down your throat and through your heart
And here’s the most unpleasant part

It’s nothing personal, you see
It could be you or them or me
And he’s just got his job to do
Ohhhhhh… the same as you

horror fantasy dark bizarre bizarro nightmare

Lil’ Deaths by D X Stone

From Lil’ Deaths: Tales of Fantasy and Horror
by D X Stone
Available thru Amazon at

(from God & David Bowie)

The hardened little harlot bounces, blinks and squeaks
The bus stop bench is clenched between her sticky cheeks
She snaps her gum, and blows pink bubbles from her buns
The local yokels hoot and shoot hot glue from plastic guns

The local yokels boo and hiss the feather-boaed nuns
And one odd bloke blows steam and smoke at
Todd the Twit’s twin twisted sons
The Whisperin’ Mime taps toes in time to shouted cries
From clowns with swizzle sticks stuck in their X X eyes

Most all the passing clones
Who roamed the once-choked street
Are long since gone to homes to soak their broken feet
They sit alone, or mix it up and phone a date
To share a fix from dimly glowing Passion Plate

They watch the action from a pixeled distance, unawares…

The local yokels stuck to stairs and rocking chairs
And old car seats, old stools and musty chamber-pots
Stuck like glue to sticky spots
In seats they picked in heat so hot
So long ago they all forgot they ever used to move―
Each ass held fast to corresponding groove

The harlot, startled, burps and giggles
Nearly swallowing her gum
The local yokels cackle, wriggle
Clearly wallowing as one

The harlot passes ‘round the hat
And pleased with loot, resumes her gumming
The local yokels howl at that,
And wheeze, and hoot…

And just



* * *

God & David Bowie

Book Cover - God & David Bowie by D X Stone - Published by Nuance Press

God & David Bowie by D X Stone

I’ve been publishing my vast backlog of quality weird shit here for the past year or so; the books look great. Now if I could only sell one or two…

D X Stone is a transsexual. She is also a writer, artist, humorist, singer, songwriter, social and political activist and absolute film nut. She’s not trying to make a big deal out of the trans thing, y’know? She’s just saying.

I mean, yeah, sure, she could use a hand. Definitely. But no pressure, okay. It’s all good. She’s got this. She’s gonna be ok.


Get your hot little mitts on ALL my books HERE!

Some of these go back to the mid-eighties…I still have a LOT of these originals to
sell; drop me a PM through Facebook if interested.

fantasy, surreal, dream, nightmare

Encounter 2 – fantasy oil painting – digital variant

nude fantasy

Nude 03 – chalk pastel on newsprint

fantasy horror art painting monster creature

Well of Desire – fantasy oil painting

fantasy horror dragon Eowyn Nazgul ringwraith wraith

Wrath – oil study for Lord of the Rings

fantasy, horror, surreal

Christina’s Other World – oil on canvas

fantasy surreal art

Freefall 3 – oil painting digital variant

Here are some old pics that I haven’t shown around much up til’ now; I’m still gathering images from the past as best I can…

art horror fantasy humor, funny, bizarre

4 Pals – fantasy ink illustration

fantasy art surreal

Zen 2 – chalk pastel digital variant

surreal fantasy bizarre art surreal

Wordy Birds – chalk pastel

fantasy horror art

The Allah Stairs – illustration from Tales of the Unanticipated

fantasy horror art bizarre dark twisted

Totems – digital fantasy horror art

fantasy humor horror monster funny

Odd Bunch

fantasy nude

Nude on a Hill – chalk pastel

horror fantasy monster art image

Elephant Guy – fantasy illustration

Jesus hanging at the Mission
Til his mission is complete
And then he’s goin’ fishin’
But for now there’s folks whooz gotta eat…

He’s serving soup to nuts today
Ah, what a groaty group of guests!
And they all get in line
Cuz’ they all gotta fill their guts
(Cuz they all gotta poop, I guess…)

And then they gotta go back to the sorry streets
To try to find a bit more help
Or hope to beat the blues away
But mostly, really, just to meet
Another doom, another day…

And sometimes Jesus wishes
That his wondrous gifts sublime would simply go away

Then all these wind-blown drifters 
could just blow, y’know?
Or drift away

For even just one day

Look, you go your way, I’ll go mine…
I… I just need a little time…

He’s changin’ watery coffee into wine

For all those winos hangin’ on his vine

They cling unto his cross–it’s swingin’ crazy

With every swing another holy soul

Receives a holy daisy

And Christ is tossin’ cookies to the throng

Of poor old mortal souls who don’t
Who can’t
Who never could belong
And even though he’s Jesus Christ
Well, Jesus Christ!, he wishes he was gone–

Eat of my flesh

But please don’t take so goddamn long…

And everything he’s ever said

Has all been censored, sacked, redacted

Left for dead

Then reenacted 

And mostly badly, so it seems

So Christ is cursed to die a trillion times

In other peoples’ dreams

Y’know, it doesn’t really matter
If they wish for bread or fishes

God knows that soup’s good food–it’s good!

But they never do the goddamned dishes

Don’t say thanks, they’re rank and rude
 as mud
Considering, y’know…

This is my blood…

I bled for you

So hey, y’know, just go ahead
And have a bloody party
Open up another artery
Gulp it down, ya greedy clowns
I’m here to feed the needy, yes…
But if I could get off this freakin’ piece of wood
I must confess
I’d be outta town within the hour

And maybe–just maybe I’d be gone for good

I’d go and live alone out on the streets
I’d shave my beard and dye my hair
And I’d avoid the meek 

I wouldn’t speak to anyone for weeks and weeks…

Cuz’ all that suffering out there?
Man, I just wouldn’t care…

I’m sorry… but I need a break!
I need a shower and a shave
I need someone to save me too, y’know?

I really do
From all of you

D X Stone – 1999

If you believe that President Obama is the Reincarnation of Adolf Hitler, if you believe that he and his Democrat minions want to use their healthcare reform package to turn your grandparents into Soylent Green, then you will also believe that Jesus Christ himself was recently sighted in San Francisco astride his Majestic Metallic Arachnid of the Apocalypse!

If you believe that President Obama is the Reincarnation of Adolf Hitler, if you believe that he and his Democrat minions want to use their healthcare reform package to turn your grandparents into Soylent Green, then you will also believe that Jesus Christ himself was recently sighted in San Francisco astride his Majestic Metallic Arachnid of the Apocalypse!)photo/caption by Darren Cassidy)

This is slated for an upcoming collection, if I can manage to get the last few out here by the end of this year. I am trying. It would be nice if my publishing business was showing ANY signs of actual life… but it is not. 2015 promises me nothing but more of the same… and to be perfectly honest, I am getting very very tired.. I guess we’ll hafta see.

(A couple years ago I was approached via internet by one Bill K, who asked me to give him a list of my three favo horror flicks of all time, along with brief comment on each, for inclusion in some e-mag or published list or somethin’. This is what I sent him back over the net… perhaps it’s not that surprising that I never heard from him again.)

Mr. K,

A difficult task you’ve set me to…actually, I find it almost completely impossible to narrow the list down to just three–there are so many excellent films in the genre, and it comes down to questions of criteria (what scares you), definition (the overlap between science fiction, fantasy, horror and even some mainstream or art house offerings), and my own personal aversion to the whole concept of what is “best” in any area of artistic endeavor… all I can offer is a partial list of some of the films I found truly troubling in my life.  Keep in mind that the age at the time of viewing is, I think, a pretty significant factor in these choices…



The Exorcist— everybody’s favorite, especially when you’re young, impressionable and raised Catholic…


Night of the Living Dead (b&w original)— I saw this at perhaps 13, 14 years of age, and it scared the living shit out of me…a brilliant, awesome piece of filmwork, all the moreso for its meager budget…too, you must remember that previous to its release, there was simply nothing like it anywhere on celluloid…(Herschell Gordon Lewis does not count…for anything…)

Body Snatchers

Invasion of the Body Snatchers— the original and first remake by Philip Kaufmann were both incredibly effective pieces of dark cinema; if forced to choose, I’d opt for the remake, as it managed to follow faithfully in the footsteps of the original, expanding on, contemporizing and delineating further that sense of creeping paranoia so endemic to the first…

Hey, what do you know?… I did it!  All of these fall firmly into the most basic category of horror; it would be difficult to argue against their inclusion on any level. It’s also useful to note that all three deal with the idea of possession in some form, the concept of the individual not tortured, devoured or murdered by an outside force but subsumed within and controlled by forces that make them puppets to another, alien will and desire. It is this aspect, I suppose, that many of us who enjoy a good scare find most terrible: the loss of individual free will, coupled with an unwanted yet continued physical survival that is ultimately worse than death. Possession is madness, and madness is perhaps the most horrifying face of all, because the face of the beast is our own.

Not THAT Cheney!

Not THAT Cheney!

These though, are classics that affected me more as a child, when my innocence and sense of exuberance for simple living were more intact and unmarred. Others of note would include Lon Chaney’s Phantom of the Opera and Hunchback of Notre Dame, and Chaney Jr’s The Wolfman (all of which are tragic characters with that strong element of pathos working it’s terrible magic; the third is once again a tale of supernatural possession and loss of personal will and control.)

More contemporary films of merit include Jaws, Alien and The Terminator, (As good as these are, they are basic stories of an unstoppable predatory being that’s intent on the destruction of the hero, the stalking shadow of death made flesh…)

But I am older now, and I know of quite a few films that, to my more adult sensibilities, are scarier still


Apocalypse Now


The Devils— Ken Russell’s darkest film (and that’s saying a lot!) This and the two previous examine man’s inhumanity to man, the madness of crowds (nations, tribes or mobs) and the terrible price of sanity in a world gone well and truly mad…

Lord of the Flies

A Clockwork Orange— Regarding both of these: All of the above, and the innocence of savagery that cannot recognize its own terrible nature…





Tetsuo (The Iron Man)–These four are all, in different ways, individual, claustrophobic studies in loss of sanity; madness under a microscope.



Brazil— Terry Gilliam’s surreal black comic masterpiece is an apocalyptic vision of final and complete authoritarian control from which there is no possibility of escape save madness…

THX-1138— George Lucas’ finest work in my view, it predates Brazil by 20-some years, and probably served as inspiration for Gilliam’s dark vision…not as humorous on the face of it, but just as frightening, especially when THX learns the fate of LUH and their child…


Roy Batty

Blade Runner–Ridley Scott’s elegant interpretation of Philip K. Dick’s bizarre sensibility somehow manages to convey the author’s work more completely than anything he’d ever written (with the possible exception of The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, which, upon finishing it, made me feel that I was losing my grasp on reality completely–an opinion shared by at least one other reader, I learned to my surprise, in an offhand conversation one day…)

The Trial— Orson Welles’ masterful adaptation of the wholly unadaptable Kafka novel…(It is my considered belief that Philip K. Dick was Kafka’s direct lineal descendant…either that or they are the same person…)  This is my pick for Welles’ cinematic masterpiece, since it’s a free freakin’ country and all… (and I finally learned, after a decade of championing this opinion in film discussions with anyone who would listen, that Welles himself agreed with my opinion in this matter completely, calling it his greatest film.)

Dark City— A marvelous, stunning, beautiful, terrifying film whose entire basis is the concept that EVERYTHING we know is wrong…

And finally, my choice for the very best straight Christian-based horror film I’ve seen in a very, very long time:

The Devil’s Advocate— Full circle on these concepts; possession and madness  revealed, finally, as a series of simple moral choices we make everyday… perhaps this film should be the third on my first list, replacing Body Snatchers… not only is it thoughtful and wise, and full of wonderful performances including one by Al Pacino that is, to my mind, easily Oscar-caliber, but it is a truly frightening film that, again, falls squarely within the boundaries of the category of horror at its most basic. (Were it not for this aspect, The Devils would definitely be amongst my Top Three–it and the other two, Exorcist and NOTLD, are without question the most terrifying films I’ve ever seen.)

I’m sure I’ve missed several important items in this list–The Birds, The Hunger, Dawn of the Dead, Joe (w/Peter Boyle, not to be confused with Crazy Joe, even though he also plays a character in the former named Joe, who is definitely bugfuck crazy),  Angel Heart, Jacob’s Ladder, 1984 (the 1984 remake), Blue Velvet (Dennis Hopper will never outdo Frank Booth for Sheer Insane Villain of All Time… no one will) and Mulholland Drive, and Texas Chainsaw Massacre to name a few more–but it’s very late, and I have to be up early to work another in an endless series of mindless 8-hour shifts at my job…

I load pods into a truck all day… that’s all I do…

That’s the problem with horror in any medium, at least for me these days: it’s just not nearly as horrifying as this life I’m living under the current Republican Regime…

Author’s afterword:  Since writing this, I’ve seen several films that I just hafta mention:

The Matrix—  This one runs neck and neck with the aforementioned Dark City as another of the most extreme and dangerous films I’ve ever seen, conceptually, ideologically… these are visionary works that have a wondrously revolutionary spirit…

Fight Club—  This one even moreso, and a real mindfucker too… don’t leave three-quarters through, whatever you do… extremely stylish filmmaking as well…

Salome’s Last Dance—  Good ol’ Ken Russell… he’s so fuckin’ extreme… he makes Wes Craven look like a Boy Scout in a Norman Rockwell painting…

King of Hearts—  Ok, it only has a little horror in it– but it’s my favorite film in all the world, which is weird cuz it’s a French film– ’nuff said…  if you can rent the dubbed version of this lovely perfect gem of a suprisingly light dark comedy that’s kinda hard to explain and you just gotta see it, you GOTTA…  get  the dubbed version, it’s The Dubbing From Heaven, it actually IMPROVES the film, it’s AMAZING… anyway, just thought I’d add it to the list cuz it’s late and I’m buzzed and everyone in the world should see King of Hearts, they’d all be better people for it.

There… my three favorite horror films, in no particular order.

I think I’ve shown a good deal of restraint here, don’t you?

With little change, this was originally published in late 1999 or early 2000 in The Northland Reader. That’s why it’s missing so much of the new stuff. Sorry.

Easily one of the greatest albums of all time. And then some.

Octopus by Roger Dean

Octopus by Roger Dean

I know, I know, Gentle Giant never did catch on, here or anywhere, despite being one of the finest and fastest and most precise progressive bands imaginable. I blame the curse of Cthulhu here; they were simply TOO good. They STILL are.

The horrid trills of laughter resulting from this hideous cosmic joke continues to echo throughout all the inconceivable spaces, making tiny unborn animals bleed freely from the eyes and ears. When these echoes ricochet and amplify at unknown nexes, as they are known to do, it is not unheard of for cats to furiously urinate themselves to death; dogs, on the other hand, simply drop dead.

Birds explode.

The music, though, is sublime. And in representing the very closest thing there is to ordered harmonic perfection in this chaotic universe, it automatically attracts its opposite to it. This is why many find something they don’t like about Gentle Giant. Because such brilliance is deeply disturbing to the overall ether that comprises our seeming-physical universe. It drags Ancient Evil in its wake, even as it illuminates.

But I can assure you that in those times of the Furious Echo, listening to this music will keep your eyeballs from bursting unepectedly from your head at any moment. It will hold you together, mind, body and spirit, when others less fortunate simply collapse shrieking into chaotic puddles of molecular gumbo.

I have seen it, time and again. Give it a try. It WORKS!

This is Cthulhu’s favorite band.

I know, you’d think it would be Metallica, right? Sure! And Cthulhu DOES dig Metallica, I don’t think there’s any doubt about that! But THIS is his favorite band.

Of ALL time. And then some.

Clever subliminal Old God portraiture delivered thru the fine hand of the great Roger Dean, an Ancient God in his own right, under the guiding possession of The Deep Ones.

Hail Cthulhu!

“…we laugh at the very idea of truly noble aspirations, as we have been taught to laugh, by the behaviorists.”

Like many out there, I’m not a real trusting soul to begin with… people can disappoint, especially in an utra-modern culture like ours which has tossed out all the old rules without establishing newer, cooler rules to govern our complex interactions… I’m old enough to remember that only 25 years ago this country, though flawed and backwards in many ways, was a helluva lot nicer place to live in generally, not nearly as rude and hate-filled and seedy as the preceding 25 years, or as it’s been looking lately…

But here we are, in a whole new millenium now, and we seem in desperate need of some new cool rules… though I have always felt a healthy measure of disdain for authority generally, I was never the type to believe we should just toss it all, baby, bathwater, rubber ducky, without discrimination; I think, all things in moderation, y’know?… sure, it’s fucked up, how we all got here, how much we were all lied to and manipulated and played for suckers… but it’s never too late to make it better, to recognize that we’re all in it together, as DeNiro says in Brazil…

It is my considered belief that, amazingly, cool people of real quality still exist amid the dreck and detritus of our fine modern American society, the mainstream of which tends to discount this view, propogating the opposing idea that cool people do not in fact exist, and never have… this cynicism is so complete and pervasive nowadays that most people view the idea of cool people in the same way they view the idea of faeries, Bigfoots or Tom Brokaw (which is especially odd, as Tom’s the only one in that list whose existence is a complete fiction with absolutely no basis in fact!) By this I mean that they do not believe human beings are capable of true virtue or bravery or honesty or nobility, that we’re all just a bunch of overly-complex eating/fucking machines with too much time on our hands.

My point is, these supposed “people in the know” who push this rampant cynicism and divisiveness ‘tween people, ‘tween each other and our environment and our own instinctive knowledge of balance and meaning in this profoundly amazing and mysterious cosmos, all these marvelous academics and scholars and rationalists and media morons, these visionaries of the new indifference trying to drill this new model for human society into all of us… I don’t trust these people.

I think they’re trying really hard to cut everyone off from the magical wellspring that is our connection to our own higher consciousnesses… and they’re doing a fine job of it.

Few of us seek our highest selves anymore; it’s kind of a dead concept in America today. Instead, we seek power and wealth and and the illusion of hipness and personal evolution, not to mention no-strings sex and endless distraction… and we laugh at the very idea of truly noble aspirations, as we have been taught to laugh, by the behaviorists.

They, the control boys, try to make us think we’re so stupid and greedy and inferior a species, on so many levels, that we all might just as well give into the forces of entropy and despair and live out the remainder of our lives competing for title of World’s Biggest A-Hole To Ever Walk The Planet.

I don’t trust those who discourage others from walking upright.

Gravity is bad enough for a lot of people, if you ask me…

Here, then, is just a partial list of folks I feel have made it their stock in trade to lie to us all, big fat fluffy lies full of all sorts of noxious gases, people who can really pile it on, the ones who tell the big lies consistently– the only punishment for such behavior in America being constant submersion in huge sums of money–because it’s gotta stop, one way or the other… it is because of this constant barrage, this tidal bombardment of continuous BS at its best, that we are a nation of unhappy bastards, most of whom don’t even know it…

And it is perhaps the chief reason why millions are horrified everywhere.

Leatherface Bush

Leatherface Bush

GW Bush – I don’t mean to beat a dead horse, but the guy is unreal, folks… on every level, and it’s not even a very convincing illusion… three months in, and it’s more obvious than ever that Mr. Bush’s head is filled with packing peanuts… let’s all hope that somewhere out there, there’s a brain on the way… (I picture a surgeon with a high-tech suitcase sitting on a plane, surrounded on all sides by armed military and intelligence operatives and about fifty fuckin’ ninjas, all speeding toward Washington, DC and a date with destiny… they’re all hoping that Bush won’t ask to see the brain first, like the last seven times, in which he screwed up seven perfectly good brains in a row… the first two he tried to put on like a hat…)



Rush Limbaugh – To this day he remains one of the most amazing founts of misinformation out there, mostly because of the freakishly large blowhole located on his face-thing… he uses this aperture to spew poisonous bile in a wide semi-circle all around him whenever he feels threatened, which is always… though I realize that, from a biological view, he’s quite a rarity, unique to nature, my wise primitive instincts make me want to club him like a baby seal, for the sake of everyone… and I know within my heart that he wants this too… somewhere deep inside that huge bloated exterior is a tiny little baby that no one ever loved enough, cuz it was such a hateful little shit…

Jerry Springer – What an incredible BS artiste! Everytime this talentless slithering little weasel-cretin is interviewed, he makes the same ridiculous claim, utterly straight-faced, that his show is 100% authentic! Were it not for this vile deceit, I’d dismiss his show as mindless crappy entertainment for profoundly stupid people… but the fact that he lies this way, and that many of the profoundly stupid people who watch regularly are easily dumb enough to be fooled by this lie, makes these broadcasts into a kind of cultural corrosive, slow-acting but extremely powerful… my complete and utter revulsion for Jerry Springer is best illustrated by the following analogy: If you were locked in a small cell with a single metal chair, and then they put a big mutant spider in the cell with you, about four feet across and two feet high and hairy and disgusting, and it just sat there about 8 feet from you, not threatening or drooling or buzzing or anything, seemingly calm, even tranquil… no matter how scared you were, or how much you wanted to believe it was sleeping and wouldn’t harm you, after only about two or three minutes you’d just have to take that chair and use it to kill that goddamn thing, wouldn’t you? A coupla times? Right?

That’s the way I feel about Jerry.

Keep him the hell away from me.

Britt Hume and Tony Snow – Are the same person… they’re actually on the same Sunday morn pundit show now, but when I first saw ’em together it was on split-screen at the end of some late-nite news special, the two wishin’ each other nighty-night, and it was weird, man… as I’d already begun to suspect, they were clones, obvious clones… and I’d already seen ’em both, seperately, enough to know that everything they say is always completely phony, so I didn’t buy it, this whole bye-bye thing… my mind raced to fill the obvious gap of logic, and I imagined these two overpaid hairdos steppin’ off two adjacent soundstages and embracing, backwards, ass to ass, both bending over ’til their foreheads met ‘tween their ankles, and swaying slightly, drunkenly, in unison, collectively emitting bizarre high-pitched piping sounds while those lil coffee-drinkin’ aliens from Men in Black moved set pieces and lighting around in the background… I saw the two of ’em goin’ off together, goin’ home and hoppin’ into bed and playin’ tent puppets all night to the unholy musical stylings of Barry Manilow, while in the shadowed enclaves a dozen other clones, all with the same exact personality and hair, ceased in their own bizarre incestuous activities to slither to a better vantage point so as to observe this obscene and forbidden coupling of Hybrid Mutant Clones In Revolt Against Nature… I imagine that come the morn they all take long standing baths in dry ion chambers that kill all bacteria, good and bad, in and out, while simultaneously styling their hair, each with a slightly different twist so as to fool an unwary and unsuspecting public, all of them immaculate newsman do’s, haircuts with secret powers… then the ones with no business to attend to on any given day are tubed in plexiglas tanks, left floating in a grey slimy smegma to maintain freshness and utter lack of humor, while the others go out in the world, out to their studios and broadcasting booths to spread ignorance and mischief of all kinds, here and abroad.

I can’t prove any of this… yet I believe it, totally and completely. I’ve put too much time into thinking it all through to feel otherwise. Call it a hunch, or gut instinct; I know I’m right on this one.

Next wk: Part II, in which somebody finally nails that Judge Judy bitch…

Some Folks I Profoundly Distrust Part II: The Paranoia Years – 5/3/01

Last week I spent some time developing my view that there are certain people out there whose main stock in trade is to deluge us all with lies, lies, lies… both by the content of their speech and their own personal histories, they seem to delight in bringing down the standards for everyone, in order to foster the illusion that there are no cool people in the world, only assholes… Newt Gingrinch was an especially forceful leader-by-example when he served his wife with divorce papers when she was in the hospital with cancer… but Newt’s old news, happily…

On the other hand, there never seems to be a real shortage of these miserable creatures, and I don’t mind telling you I don’t trust these people… I don’t even know that I trust using the word people to describe them… they are fiends and creeps and weasels and sneaky little Smeagols with college degrees and connections, and I tend to think of them as People of the Lie, in that they are so hopelessly enamored of their own bullshit… all of ’em belong on the B Ark, if ya catch my drift…

Following is a continuing list of those who, seemingly, will never be happy until we are all as soulless and wretched and truly inhuman as Newt the Beaut.

Dr. Laura Schlesinger – You know, Doctor… may I call you Doctor?… thanks… you know, Doctor, I don’t think there’s anything more exotic and erotic and wild and exciting as pure hypocrisy… I’m trying to tell you that I find you incredibly attractive, Doctor… you’re not just a common hypocrite either, you’re one of the new breed of super-hypocrites, and your confabulations and endless bullshit rants are so pure and bold… I’ve seen you on the tube giving advice to a new mother, telling her never to hit her child, even as you savagely shook a small baby who was crying in your audience… I’ve seen you telling people not to be hard-hearted and mean and vicious to others… you… and I’ve seen your promos, promising a ray of sunshine and sanity and compassionate common sense in a world that obviously needs it…

In these images we don’t see a Nazi doctor at all… you have to tune in for that…

The Good Folks at Nike – I bought the shoes and went to the inner-city lot with my squeeze-bottle of Gatorade and my cap on backwards… not only did I not dazzle everybody with slam-dunks and pirouetting layups, but I ended up getting robbed and gang-raped… even worse, a lot of them made me listen to them rap…



OJ Simpson – Somehow I just don’t trust OJ anymore… I sure wouldn’t trust him to plan and carry out a murder for me… although he probably learned a lot from the last one, as did we all… if I ever murder anyone, I’ll make sure to wear a pair of gloves one size too small… it’s the perfect alibi… (I wonder: If one is wearing a big silly hat or a tiny joke bowtie during the commission of a crime… f’rinstance, if Charles Manson had worn big floppy clown shoes, he coulda skipped… well, maybe not skipped, but he coulda walked, anyway…)

Clinton Sax

Clinton Sax

Bill Clinton – Is not in this list, because although everyone knows he lied to the American people, it was a small lie of no importance, a fib, really, as his relationship with Ms. Lewinsky was a matter between them and their own close relations only… however, the Big Lie of the Century, pushed by The Mega-Buck News Media on every front, was the idea that Clinton’s indiscretions constituted not so much a crime (cuz if fellatio were truly a crime, wouldn’t Rex Reed be in solitary 24/7?), but that Clinton had somehow failed all of America on this heavy moral level… the piteous wailing and gnashing of teeth went on for what seemed like years and years (but was in fact only a matter of years), and the goofiest cavil of all was the constantly repeated “What will I tell my children?” screed… it seems to me that such questions are inane and insanely hypocritical, coming back at us from the same source that provides a constant and unending barrage of violent and sexually provocative imagery and concept in the areas of entertainment and advertising… yes, sex sells… but where to draw the line between Permissive and Incredibly Excessive and Utterly Disgusting and Best Left Unspoken and Somebody Call Springer? What did you tell your children about Jeffrey Dahmer, that the news hadn’t already spelled out in infinite, one might even say loving detail? What didn’t the news cover about the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal, in terms even little kids could understand, except perhaps the unspoken but indisputable fact that even a good man is only human and capable of mistakes… that no one of us is perfect?

The Liars of the Century calling Bill the Liar of the Century?… I love that…



The Pope – Good God, check out that hat! The dude’s got a scrawny lil 98-year-old chicken neck supporting a hat so big and bejeweled and ostentatious that even Elton John would say, “Whoa!… that’s a bit much, isn’t it?” He’s got the hat and the flowing robes and the big-ass rings and jewelry… he’s the world’s oldest, most obvious closet transvestite! (Not to mention the holiest…)
(Editor’s note: That was the OLD Pope, mind ya! In fact, that was TWO Popes ago!)

I know, I know… how can I say that about the Holy Transvestite?

Well, first of all, ya gotta understand that I’m all screwed up…. cuz I was raised Catholic.

The good part is, I gave it up for Lent.

Second, I’m a transsexual myself… so when I call someone a transvestite, it’s a compliment, ok?

Me, I’d like to see the Pope in a simple long peasant dress, something in a light tasteful print, with a gaily-colored sash and plum pumps… a dash of tasteful jewelry (no huge ruby rings this decade, thank you!) and an immense headdress made of straw and feathers, light but impressive, an intricate woven form that rises and hovers above his Holiness like some terrible grimacing fanged monstrosity from hell, its taloned fingers enshrouding the Holy Pate protectively… maybe throw in a skull necklace too, or perhaps a shrunken head…

His makeup’s good to go… I wouldn’t change a thing.

Judge Judy – She can be such a bitch when she’s got her period, and there are innocent people behind bars because of this… even when she’s all there, she doesn’t listen very well, which I would’ve thought to be a primary skill in her field–instead she’s arrogance incarnate, damn near foaming with power and ill-disguised contempt for any and every unhappy asshole who ends up before her (all tv judges are like this, actually, as well as most actual judges–it’s like they think they’re in a Dickens novel or somethin’…)

I don’t know what JJ’s problem is, but she needs to chill… she’s always being short and curt and cutting people off and treating everyone within range of her bitchiness with much less respect than is commonly afforded to, say, dead people…

…which brings me to my final choice:

Dead People – I don’t trust dead people. Dead people wrested this great country of ours from its fair and wise native peoples, then proceeded to turn it into the Land of the Dead, the Land of the Phony Dream. Dead people started commerce and capitalism, and took it all to the insane extremes of slavery and war, and said, “It is good.” Dead people fought countless wars over countless centuries, killing each other dead whenever humanly possible, in an endless cosmic spree of killing and dying until every last dead person was stone cold dead.

Now the dead people are all dead and gone (except for Strom Thurmond, who will never really go away, ever…)

All the people breathing and moving right now? We are the living people, and amongst us there are still a few who, despite living in an ocean of lies and deceit, know that we humans are not just workers and consumers, liars and fuckers and killers, not just upright mammals but something more, something mysterious and potentially wonderful… these are the ones who know they’re alive, and know also that the future is always exactly what we make of it.

I like those people. They’re unique and individual and basically honest, and they still believe in the positive aspects of mankind.

And nobody trusts ’em… they’re just so weird.

Go figure.

It was a world of music, a world of order and certainty and intricate arrangement and manifold beauty… and it had always been her world.

It was every kind of music, seamlessly interwoven, smooth and golden-brown around the edges, liquid-pretty and impossibly effortless. It was music that hummed to itself, danced slow and close with itself, a music that listened in rapt attention to itself, every note cognizant of each and every other, and thus each fully aware of their own individual relationships within the endless flux. It was, at times, wild and unrelenting, passionate, fiery and fierce… it was abstract and detached, glowing, unknowing, innocent and rash… it was frivolous, intimate, sullen and intense, joyful, perceptive, uninhibited, formidable and free. No one knew when it had begun, but this was known: It never ended, and it never would.

And it had been said, sometime long long before, that it was the essence of its opposite, the smiling substructure of silence, the sound one hears when one is not aware of sound, or hearing, when one is caught up in the intimate caress of velvet undulations of ripple-riddles that would be
spoiled by answers, however clever or kind—-though who had said this, and how they could ever know such a thing, was unknown.

But it had been said in music… and it sounded right, anyway.

Lying motionless in a fold-cloth mesh, Ilyalaia came awake to a sudden cadence of vacuum horns as they sucked the sleep from her in a single long draught, and she opened one long-lashed eye languidly. The sound faded away and was gone, melting into dissonance as she opened two more eyes and rubbed at them until they gleamed. And now strings came in, light and fine as spiders’ thread, two and three at first, then joined by others, intricately overlain… and they began to spin a song of praise and preparation for the dawning day, and they wound about her and tugged gently, and she arose, stretched many limbs and floated softly to the open window that gazed out upon the forever expanse of the sand sea.

Her view took in the familiar shapes of the other tiny and distant islands that dotted the sea all around her, each a platform for one small sandstone building, each structure graced with a wide variety of carvings etched upon its outer surface, intricate geometric bas-reliefs that caught the music within their tiny grooves and channels and threw it back with slight changes in pitch or tone, all utterly harmonious within the whole, personalizing the sound in the listener’s immediate area—personalizing, for the carvings were cut with care and patience by the inhabitants themselves, guided only by an inner intuition, under the music’s constant sanguine supervision. Each of these structures was different, some squat and square, some spiral-shaped and tapering, or domed, or columnar, or round or multi-faceted. Some were striped with one long and thin window that wound about the structure in a graceful curve; others had ovoid or triangular apertures, or a wide and elegant arch, like hers, or many, many other designs.

And she knew that the occupants of these dwellings would be getting up and going to their windows to look out upon the new day’s composition. She knew that they would sit and listen and watch, and after a while they would leave their windows and go to their work, and spend the day happily in the company of the music. She knew all of this, even though she had never met another of her race in the flesh—she never left her home, save to roam the small area of shifting, stretching, rising and falling land that surrounded it; none of them did, she knew this too, instinctively. They lived, each one, a solitary existence on their tiny floating islands… but they did not feel alone, for they shared the celebration of the music.

Now she sat upon the stone ledge and looked out, and saw the forms of five-pointed arabesques etched evenly in the sand sea shallows, saw the larger symmetrical patterns of the deeps, now a mosaic of diamonds, now crescents, now a tremendous arabesque that mimicked the forms shown in the shallows’ prelude a moment before. She sat serenely at the ledge, watching the shifting superimposition of the forms created by the music’s changing moods… and she knew that today was somehow different, that within the undercurrents of the music there was the subtle shading of a new and singular sound, one whose like she had never heard before, like some new season come to welcomed grace in a tired land. And she held her breath, felt her flesh go marble-cool and strangely-textured, for she felt that this new sound was speaking to her alone.

And so, though it had never been her habit to do so, she lingered at the arch of the window, and moments turned into long hours and passed unnoticed, so rapt was her attention to this enchanted serenade and the forms it painted upon the restless landscape. Thoughts, feelings, emotions washed over her in rythmic waves as she swayed in the greater sea, and a wondrous fever stole silently upon her, mantling her brow in a glistening regality.

Before her, the endless dance of the sands unfolded in its infinite variegations, a panorama of polytonal motion; moody, shifting and changing, forever returning, forever yearning. She felt with a new awareness the waves of music on the sand sea: now sharp, now flat, now swelling high and sweet and lofty, and gravity, breathless, ceases to be for a timeless moment… now graduating down, down into broad bass hollows and dim tympanic passages… now passage made and reverberation trailing, now surge and sweep and strain, and FLIGHT!… refrain, glide softly in slow metered measures back to ground.

Above her, the light cascadence of wind flowers, blowing full and sweet-smelling on the tumultuous breeze. Above her, the vibrant summer sky, a rainbow scale of trembling color. Above her, a flight of spinning winged creatures which rode only those air currents that had their origin in echoes. Above her, a need, a purpose… meaning.

In her face, the countenance of the dream, the expression of expression long-awaited, now come to final fruition. In her eyes, the theme of the song.

She had lived on her island for so many years, keeping her silence patiently, listening and watching and learning, and quieting the harmonics of her own inner being so that they might synchronize more perfectly with that of the music. Now she hovered on the brink of the new, and was washed by wave-forms of sound and feeling… and with each passing moment, her body and mind orchestrated themselves toward a more perfect vibrational unity with the moving atmosphere around her. Gentle tensions pressed her; her breath came raw and heated; and with sudden clarity she felt old moorings loosen and let go, felt herself cast adrift, moving out and away…

And the music came to her then… it came walking out across the sea to sit beside her, and it smiled and caressed her, touched her with many hands, and whispered fine magicks in her ear, and pulled her to it.

And the sea was a surface of shining scales, and figures were reflected in them, marching slowly out across it, so many figures, a procession slow and joyful and orderly and beautiful.

And the music kissed her, and the touch was cool liquid heat, and the fire suffused her in its bright aura.

And she met and matched its yearning, and there was harmony in her responses.

And she held tightly to it, struggled, strained with it, as it/she/they climbed and swelled and ached and spiraled toward crescendo…

From the moment of her birth she had known, immediately and completely within her certain nature, of her true purpose, of the music’s need, of her own.

And the last bit of her self was eroded and carried away, and she merged with the music completely, and they reached, as one…

A high and mellifluent flight of notes, a unique chord that had never been heard in all the time before, that would never be repeated in all the endless time to come, sprang from her and was engulfed within the intricate beauty of the polyphony, a small note of counterpoint in the
eternal symphony.

Her body was embraced by a cold crystal fire that corroded and consumed the empty shell. A new form, one that would never again appear in those shifting sands, flickered quickly across the golden surface and was lost again in the quickening permutations.

All who heard the sound shared its flight.

And petals of rare delicacy danced and settled softly in the bright room.

Front Cover of Lil' Deaths: Tales of Fantasy & Horror by D X Stone Published by Nuance Press

Lil’ Deaths by D X Stone

This story appears for the first time in Lil’ Deaths, a collection of dark as hell and/or bizarre and hilarious short fantasy stories by D X Stone, including three pieces that saw print in Amazing Stories Magazine, as well as dead-on parodies of dark fantasy giants Harlan Ellison and Clive Barker! A number of poems are also included, including It Sometimes Makes Me Wonder, Another Pound of Flesh, Mr. Bright, Burning Barrel, Slappin’ Patton and The Sillier Surreal Killer!
Oh yes, I also did the cover art.

Get your hot little mitts on ALL my books HERE!

“I don’t know just what it is about word games that I find so tremendously… compelling,” Mamet said as he tilted the little amber vial in one pudgy hand, carefully spooning out a large tuft of whitish powder with the other. He trembled only slightly as he guided the stuff to his right nostril and sniffed hard. His little pig-eyes blinked once or twice in reaction and he sat still as a portrait for a long moment, mouth agape, staring fixedly at some unguessable middle distance like some life-size cardboard cut-out of Tor Johnson—and an oddly happy Tor Johnson at that.

His companion, a small ratlike man in his mid-thirties, had not seen Plan Nine From Outer Space, or any of the other vintage 40’s and 50’s horror films starring that inimitable and lovable hunk of murderous flesh; but he knew a big fat obnoxious dolt when he saw one.

At this moment, however, he was not actually seeing Mamet at all; his attention was fixed solely and irrevocably on the nearly empty vial in the big man’s hand and he fidgeted anxiously, wiping at his own nose at irregular intervals of once every three to five seconds.

The table at which they sat was in a darkened corner of a nearly empty bar, The Impacted Colon. Normally the place was teeming and crawling with the most disgusting and degenerate denizens of the city’s slums, wharfs and sewers: murderers, thieves, rapists, mimes, performance artists. It was rumored that here, for a mere shilling or two, on could buy certain services not offered in any of the finer malls and vending establishments—a leg broken, a throat cut, a nose picked. For a small additional charge, these services could be rendered upon one’s enemies rather than oneself. And it was even whispered that for the right price, one could purchase things that no human being, sane or otherwise, would ever want to buy for any reason whatsoever—though the point of such whisperings was itself a source of even more whispering, soft and furtive and perhaps too difficult to hear with any accuracy… which then often quickly degenerated into bouts of meaningless grimacing and hissing, followed soon thereafter, if good fortune prevailed, by an abrupt change of subject.

It was very late this night, though, and whatever patrons weren’t dead or drunk, or perhaps both, had apparently paired off and wandered out into the night fog to have meaningless, impersonal sex. This was apparent by the wide array of muffled barnyard noises emanating from the alley outside.

Mamet blinked again, regaining sudden awareness of his surroundings. “Oh—what was I saying?”

“Word games,” mumbled the other through his hand, from which he had already completely chewed many of the nails. This was by no means his nastiest habit.

“Oh, oh yes, word games, indeed—like this!” Grinning goofily, he held the small glass container up to illustrate: “Vile stuff, this, eh? Eh?” He jiggled the vial as if to draw the other’s attention and concretize the connection of his little pun, momentarily failing to realize that the rat-man could not have been more aware of it had Mamet reached across the table and stuck it in his eye.

All the way, until the eyeball exploded and the vial imbedded itself in the back of the socket—but who would do something like that, or even think such a thing?

Nevertheless the rat-man smiled, nodded several times, forced himself to chuckle politely. He considered making a grab for it.

Sudden comprehension registered in Mamet’s immense jowled face. “Oh, oh yes, here you are!” He handed the vial and spoon over, his movements slow and cumbersome. The rat-man, much faster, met him more than halfway. “Enjoy, oh yes, do enjoy,” he drawled, smiling dully as the other did so without hesitation.

He had just tapped the last of the vial’s contents when a shadow crossed their table. A topless barmaid with numerous tumors, chancres, sores and a particularly livid series of scars where here nipples should have been stood above them. “Drink up now gents—closing time.” The rat-man eyed her charms as she sauntered away, leering disgustingly (the rat-man, not her—well, actually, both.)

Suddenly Mamet leaned across the table and patted the rat-man on the shoulder several times. “Why not come home with me tonight?” he blurted out. “I’ve got some really good stuff back at my flat—one-eighty a gram, and worth every penny!”

The rat-man eyed Mamet suspiciously. Theirs had been a chance meeting, one of those things that just seems to happen in some short fiction, often without even a decent attempt at explanation. His beady rat-like eyes narrowed, and he wondered: “Why this sudden come-on? He doesn’t know me, and I’m not buying. I’m not connected. How come he’s plying me with coke? What does this guy want, anyway?”

And suddenly the homosexual tension in that small block of space was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

In fact, it was so thick that you could stab it repeatedly, pull out all the internal organs and just sort of bathe your face in their moist heat—though who would think such a thing, or even want to?

Now in actuality, the rat-man was no stranger to homosexual experience, not at all. In point of fact, he’d had sex with all manner of creature at one time or another in his storied past, from chickens to carnival geeks—though never at the same time, for obvious reasons—but the one thing that he could not abide was fat. The very thought of co-mingling his own flesh with someone of such fantastically porcine dimension made nothing but his gorge rise.

(The only other thing the rat-man had never tried was necrophilia, and this on moral grounds—after much consideration he’d decided to save something for marriage.)

But murder, on the other hand…

At first torn between desire and caution, the rat-man’s desire was quickly winning out. High as he was, his mind had made swift calculation of all of these factors, and already he’d thought: “Why not? I’ll go, snort as much as I can, and if this tub of lard starts coming on too strong I can always split. Piece o’ cake.”

In fact, having enjoyed more than half a gram of Mamet’s stash already, his mind went blustering on, alight with inspiration and confident conviction: “Hey, y’know, this guy could be loaded! Maybe I’ll just lead him on, beat the shit out of him once we get back to his place and take his coke, his watch, maybe rob the joint! Yeah, hey—maybe I could knock him out, tie him up and steal everything—credit cards, jewelry, vehicles, bank account, yeah, yeah… I think I’ll go.”

All of these thoughts sprinted-hopped through the rat-man’s almost audibly popping mind in an instant—but before he could reply, Mamet had already sensed his original reservations and was hastening to dispel them.

“Oh, oh, I hope you don’t think I’m—well, not that I have anything against that sort of thing, but—you see, I’m not after your body or anything like that, no, not at all! I… I could just use the company, that’s all. I do so love to talk—and to listen as well—life can be so lonely at times… and I thought, well, I’ve so enjoyed myself tonight, you’re quite an interesting conversationalist yourself it seems to me, and I just didn’t want it to end, I—”

“Hey, hey, that’s cool,” the rat-man piped up. “Yeah, we could do that, why not? Sure.”

Mamet beamed. “Wonderful!” He stood and began to put on his ponderous coat. “I’ve a nice claret at home in the fridge, and some lovely chocolates too…”

“God, don’t you ever shut up?” the rat-man thought as he got up and followed him to the door.

Outside, the London fog was so thick you could go out and murder whores and strippers in it, and leave their mutilated bodies right out in the open for young children to find the next morning—though what kind of mind would wish to labor overlong in considering such possibilities?

“Ah, beautiful night, isn’t it?” Mamet said, and went right on chattering without waiting for an answer. “It’s just a short walk—and it’s good for the heart anyway, walking that is—”

A pretty young woman came striding alone out of the fog toward them. “Good evening, dearie!” Mamet exclaimed heartily, and she smiled shyly, walked on into the night from whence she’d come.

“Now there’s what I like! Women! God love ‘em—not that they’d have anything to do with me, but there’s no harm in looking! What do you like? I’m a breast man myself, but to each his own! I must confess, I’m a bachelor, confirmed, yes! They are so nice to look at, but brains? Ha! Besides, they talk too much! Oh well—did I mention that I’m a chef? Gourmet, yes, all sorts of delicacies—but what do you do? Don’t tell me, let me guess… um, sales! No? Don’t tell me… ”

Within the rat-man’s mind a controversy was raging: “First I’ll kill him, then do all the coke, then… no, first I’ll do the coke, then I’ll kill him—no, wait, I know—I’ll tie him up and gag him and do all the coke and then I’ll kill him slowly—wait, I really should gag him first, then tie him up… shit, maybe I should just kill him, then tie him up, then gag him… then kill him again, maybe…”

Finally they arrived in front of a large, dilapidated two-story brownstone. No illumination shone from within. The buildings on either side looked just as deserted and forlorn. It was perfect.

“Here we are!” Mamet continued without missing a beat, much as a heart continues on without missing a beat—until someone takes a circular saw, opens up the chest, wrenches it out with their bare hands and bites it savagely five or six times as if it were some sort of separate little enemy that needs to be killed individually—though what kind of deranged thought processes could come up with an image like that is anybody’s guess!

“This key’s a little tricky,” he blathered on incessantly. “Let’s just see if—ah, there we go. Come in, come in!”

Mamet snapped on lights as they went, and the rat-man followed him into a large, well-appointed living room with an immensely high ceiling. To the left a wide staircase wound up to the second; to the right, a stone fireplace with chairs and a small table pulled up before it. Mamet headed straight across and through an arched doorway at the other end, yammering all the way: “Make yourself at home, take off your coat! I’ll just get that claret… if you want to make a fire, go right ahead! The loo is back down the hall, if you need to go… oh, the uh… the snuff is right there in the top table drawer; if you care to have a toot, help yourself! I’ll be only a minute…”

“I’m doing the world a favor,” the rat-man thought.

He stabbed him just as he came out of the doorway carrying the claret, still talking. The bottle shattered explosively on the wooden floor, much like somebody’s head might shatter explosively if you twisted it off and took it up to the roof of a very tall building and dropped it off. The blade sunk deep into his bulky midsection, and for a moment the wind whistled out of Mamet not as words but simply as wind.

But only for a moment.

The next instant, Mamet’s pudgy hand moved in a blur, catching the rat-man’s wrist in a viselike grip and squeezing it into splinters.

“Well now, this changes things a bit, doesn’t it? Tell you what… why don’t you just go fuck yourself?” Mamet said, and proceeded to kick the rat-man between the legs with such incredible force that his penis and testicles were suddenly displaced with great force right up his own anus—which is basically impossible, but what good is horror fiction if you can’t have a little fun now and again?

The rat-man fell to the floor, vomiting convulsively. Mamet stepped back and opened his shirt, revealing the wound which, while deep, had not been anywhere near deep enough to penetrate the incredible wealth of greasy, pimply flesh that hung about his glutinous midsection like a semi-truck tire.

“Eat well for health, that’s what I always say, haha… word games, yes!” He began to undress then, laughing all the while, til he was down to his underwear—which were women’s, by the way… and not just any women’s, but dead women’s—and dirty, too.

He pranced about in grotesque fashion, revealing just about every square inch of his hideously monstrous and hairy and liver-spotted body to the rat-man, who in response to this additional stimulus began throwing up through his nose and ears as well.

“Oh yes, I did promise you another snort or two, didn’t I?… And a debt owed… is a dead toad! Ha ha ha!”

He gestured with dramatic flair, like a stage magician; and reaching deep into his lacy underthings, he pulled a dead toad out of his crotch with a flourish and a little bow, then grabbed the rat-man by the hair and shoved the slimy thing up his left nostril, all the way in, somehow.

“Be right back!” he cried merrily, and left the room laughing still.

The rat-man lay trembling, retching and trying desperately to scream.

His host returned soon, wearing a bra made of real female breasts, and carrying an electric power saw. He paraded before the rat-man, giggling.

“See?—I really am a breast man! Hee hee!” He switched on the saw and walked slowly toward the rat-man. “But I really don’t like women that much—as I said, no brains! Get it? No? You will, hahahaha!” And then he sat down on the rat-man, pinning him firmly to the floor, and began to saw the top of his head off.

What little struggle the rat-man was still able to put up proved utterly futile. The saw took awhile to get a good bite into the bone, and even longer to make it through; but once the victim had finally stopped writhing, the work went much more smoothly.

When he was finished, Mamet pulled the brain from the rat-man’s truncated skull and held it up in his hands, the slime and viscera running down his fat forearms like chicken grease. “You see? I really didn’t want you for your body—get it? Ahahahahaha!”

He stood and took the brain away through the doorway, returned again and dropped his panties and, kneeling, pulled the rat-man’s lifeless corpse, head-first, between his knees, and began to do something unspeakable. “Don’t mind me,” he howled, “I’m just fucking with your head! Hahahahahahaha!! Aaahhh-haahaa-hahaha-hahaha!!!”

Finally finished, Mamet left again, calling back through the doorway, “I’ve a surprise for you—won’t be a minute! Just stay right where you are, don’t move! Ha-HA!”

There was the sound of rattlings and clinkings and the faint sound of Mamet humming to himself from the other room. And then he was speaking again, getting louder as he approached.

“Remember how I told you I was a chef? All sorts of delicacies?” He entered the room carrying a sizzling frying pan and thrust it in front of the rat-man’s dead, blood-and-gore-strewn face. “You know what this is? No? Want to guess? No? Okay, I’ll tell you!… This… is your brain on drugs! AHAHAHAHA, AH HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA–”

Scream 8 by D X Stone Published by Nuance Press horror fear madness deranged twisted dark fantasy

Scream 8 by D X Stone

And suddenly, all at once the rat-man’s lifeless head jerked up, its mouth opened and a high piercing scream filled the room and echoed through the house.

The rat-man’s mutilated corpse jumped to its feet and launched itself at Mamet, who stood with eyes bulging in horror. It leapt upon him, shrieking “SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!!!!” Mamet opened his mouth to scream, and with a crackling of muscle and tendon the rat-man-thing stuffed its lifeless arm all the way down his throat. Blessed silence rewarded the effort, but the rat-man-thing did not stop there. Slowly, inexorably, it stuffed its other arm in, then its head; and then with tremendous effort it forced its way further and further in til it had crawled all the way down Mamet’s throat—which is utterly impossible, but don’t stop me, I’m on a roll.

About twenty minutes later, after it was absolutely sure he was dead and utterly quiet, and would remain so, the rat-man’s corpse emerged from Mamet’s colon, punching its way through his sphincter, tearing and ripping its way through into the world once more, still screaming and now utterly covered in vileness; and as it came, it drew all his intestines out with it. It threw them in a filthy pile in the corner, shrieking triumphantly. Then it twisted off his head and took a good several minutes to defecate fully and noisily down the fat man’s ragged neck stump. Finally it picked up the head and ran out, still screaming like a banshee, to find a very, very tall building from which to drop it off.

Meanwhile, several blocks away, two writers sat chatting over cappuccinos in an all-nighter. The taller and darker of the two, who resembled a beetle, said, “My point is that man is insatiable, it is his very nature; and that there can be no limits of morality or judgement upon man and all his works, because the very god that made man, if it indeed exists, is obviously insane.”

“Even so,” his lighter companion protested, “my point is that it’s possible to go too far with horror fiction, to elevate the level of gore, viscera and what have you to a place where nothing is really scary anymore, nothing shocks—and worse, there is nothing to learn or be gained in the interaction of good vs. evil, not in such an amoral universe. Man suffers the most horrible excesses of pain and loss, and the suffering is ultimately meaningless.”

“And your point again?”

“There is no point, apparently—not in your universe, anyway. My argument would be that we, as writers, have a responsibility to attempt to elevate the human spirit, not drag it down… and that horror fiction, if not taken too far, can be a means to this end. There’s enough chaos and ugliness in the universe as it is—certainly we can agree on that, can we not? And therefore it seems to me that any writer worthy of the name, given the gift of imagination, should try to make a conscious effort not to simply spew the very worst bile of their soul out onto the page, but instead to try to find ways, coda if you will, within the framework of poetry and language that can provide a view into both the darkness and the light that gives form to it. It’s a question of balance.”

“There is no balance, no stasis,” his companion interjected. “All is mindless void in a constant process of devouring itself in the form of its own young.”

“That’s one truth. It’s opposite is equally true; otherwise our coffees would constantly spill… by the way, you don’t get invited to a lot of parties, do you?”

“It doesn’t matter if our coffees did spill. Whether they did or not, we would always want more. The same goes for parties, wealth, sex, violence… always we would crave more. We are insatiable monsters, all of us.”

“Maybe we are all monsters in potential—but I’m just saying that whatever balance exists in human culture is due to the conscious striving of individuals within it to reject a philosophy of hopelessness, despite the evidence, and instead to focus on trying to live a greater fantasy, a positive dream, without which influence life here on earth would truly be hopeless.”

“Those are just words… symbols created by madmen.”

“But we’re writers! Words are our stock in trade! Words are our power, and it’s up to us to use them wisely. As a writer, what do you have to say to that?”

“Fuck you.”

And meanwhile, several blocks eastward, a very unattractive and unintelligent man with horribly bad adult acne was having sex with his 86-year-old mother, whom he had just murdered, when suddenly, at the moment of orgasm, for no apparent reason a group of small, hideously deformed children burst into the room, spooned out his eyeballs, ate them and ran away giggling.

And, simultaneously, three streets over, an incredibly thin man with terrible body odor was going down on his wife, who was a rather plain-looking and unpleasant-smelling creature herself, when suddenly, overcome by a terrible hunger, a starvation of the very soul, he sank his teeth into her womanhood like a wild animal, causing the woman to scream and die, the reader to upchuck all over this page and the writer to achieve a really stupendous erection.

And finally, all the way across town, down in the nastier section where this tale first began, the pretty young woman who’d passed Mamet and the rat-man earlier was walking alone in the fog when suddenly, not thirty feet from where she stood, a manhole cover exploded from its place, flipped high in the air and landed with a tremendous clang in the deserted street. The girl shrieked and jumped back against a damp wall…

…and out of the hole snaked an immense, semi-erect penis, as big around as the hole itself. It slithered out for more than a dozen feet, its head rising as if to sniff the air, was still for a long moment and then turned, slowly, toward the girl.

She stood before it, panting in mortal terror… and then the fear fled from her flushed face to be replaced by a look that could best be described as pure religious adoration.

She moved away from the wall and began to walk toward it, arms outstretched, unafraid.

But those are other, darker stories.

Clod Darker
—Greenwich-Beekman, Oct. 94

Front Cover of Lil' Deaths: Tales of Fantasy & Horror by D X Stone Published by Nuance Press

Lil’ Deaths by D X Stone

“I have seen the face of the future of horror
fiction… and it looks like Paul McCartney,
and it quacks like a whole gaggle of terrible
fanged zombie were-ducks from beyond the grave,
and it smells like shit and… it is Darker.”
—Steve Extreme

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