Howard Thomas was a Social Studies high school teacher who lived in Manhattan with his wife Susan and their 15- year- old twins Brian and Arnold. When Howard got his certification to become a principal, he started looking for a position in Upstate New York. In that area, the family could enjoy plenty of space and fresh air after living in a crowded, polluted city.
Always giving an excellent impression at interviews, Howard was hired as the high school principal at Winfield, a town in the Mohawk Valley near the Adirondack Mountains, starting the next school season in the fall.
A local real-estate agent was hired and quickly found the family an old yellow painted Cedar wood Italianate farmhouse with a stream at the eastern section of a two-acre property. True, the house was built in 1890, but its condition was good and the place maintained a certain charm.
The family settled in Winfield about a month before the school term began. Susan suggested theypurchase aportable above ground swimming pool for the boys, but Howard decided first to get a decent tractor first to mow the grounds and keep it from becoming an overgrown field of tall grass, weeds, and wildflowers.
Having lived in Manhattan, Brian and Arnold’s new friends admired them for their trendy way of doing things. The twins liked this admiration and quickly adjusted to their new surroundings. As for their parents, it took a bit longer, although Howard personally enjoyed the prestigious role of being a high school principal.
The first time Howard experienced something strange happening was five months after moving to Winfield. Unable to sleep one evening, he lay restlessly tossing and turning in the dark for hours until finally deciding to get dressed and take a stroll in the back of the house.
Most of the trees were bare by now, and the full moon cast an eerie blue light on the grounds. Nearing the stream, Howard saw a figure staring at him from the other side. The man had long blond hair that framed a pale young face. When he called out to him, the stranger disappeared. Thinking that perhaps his imagination was playing tricks and no one was really there, Howard returned home. Once getting into bed, he was able to fall asleep until the morning.
Busy at his new job and adjusting to his new life, Howard soon forgot the incident. However, one snowy winter night when he was at the desk in the den, he saw the same man staring at him from the window. Getting up, he ran outside, but no one was there
What does this fellow want? he wondered, becoming more angry than fearful.
For the next few days, Howard searched the entire neighborhood to see if the man might just be some nosy neighbor without any success. Yet, from that time on, he began to constantly see this stranger looking into the first-floor windows in his house or somewhere on the grounds. Oddly enough, none of the other family saw him.
Eventually able to get a bit closer to this figure when outside, Howard guessed him to be in his early twenties. Tall, thin, and dressed in something reminiscent of what men wore in the late nineteenth century, he attempted to speak to this strange person, but all the young man did was respond with an unnerving smile, turn, and walk away.
Naming this weirdo “The Stalker,” Howard became determined to stop him snooping around the premises. The following afternoon he went to the local police precinct and filled out a report on this prowler and asked for their assistance to apprehend him. He was assured they would get right on the case if he would be willing to press charges when the person was caught. Of course, Howard agreed to do this.
For the next few months, the Stalker stopped appearing again, and Howard thought the problem was over. During the Easter weekend, Susan and the twins went to visit her folks in Connecticut. Since Howard had one of his bad migraine headaches, he stayed at home.
The first evening alone, it rained. There was a short in one of the lamps when he tried switching it on and the house when dark. Unplugging the wire, Howard went down to the cellar to turn on the breakers. Reaching the box, he suddenly felt a cold hand touching his shoulder. Startled, he stepped back and tripped over something and fell to the floor. Standing over him was the stalker, only this time he glowed in a purplish haze that began fading when he started to speak in a steady deep voice.
“At last, we are able to communicate. This is going to be a glorious night for me!”
Frightened and starting to panic, Howard tried to rise from the floor, but was unable to do so.
“You’ll get up when I am ready to allow you, the specter shouted, frowning with anger.
“My gracious, am I under his control?” Howard thought nervously.
The specter bent down and looked him with large light- blue eyes that seem to pierce into Howard’s soul.
“If you are thinking that I have you under my control, you are absolutely correct.”
“But why choose me?” the frightened man asked.
“You will find that out when I get my wish. In the meantime, if you promise to cooperate and don’t try escaping, we can go upstairs where it will be more comfortable while I tell you my story.”
Howard nodded. The cellar was so damp and dingy.
Upstairs, the phantom looked around and rubbed his hands gleefully
“My house has held up well.”
“What do you mean your house? This place is mine; lock, stock, and barrel,” Howard replied indignantly. “In any case, just who are you anyway?”
“Better you should ask who I once was,” replied the phantom. “My name is Cort Van Tassel. I designed and built this house for myself back in 1890. I was quite a successful young architect then and had everything to live for; youth, wealth, and recently engaged to one of the most beautiful women in this state. Unfortunately, in my time, we did not have the advancement in medicine as you have now. A flu epidemic suddenly struck the town of Winfield shortly after I moved into this house and I was one of the first persons to succumb from the sickness. After my death, the estate could not bear to keep this house and sold it.
My restless soul could find no peace and kept wandering this vicinity, wishing to try and find a way of living again. It seemed so unfair to be so unjustly cut off from the prime of life. Especially since I had always tried doing good deeds by helping aid the poor and other unfortunates who passed my way. I never missed a church service, praying for peace on earth to which I now have come to a conclusion is an uncaring and unjust god. Then one midnight, not too long ago, a hooded figure known as the supreme master of the underworld appeared before me. He promised to help me if I would be loyal to him and find a soul that would become his once I decided to take over that person’s physical body.”
Howard was aghast. “Why would you make a pact with such evil that spreads unmitigated suffering throughout the universe?”
Cort moved closer to Howard and clasped his shoulders. “Because I will get what I most want!”
“Just what has this to do with you haunting me?” the doomed man asked, in denial of his fate.
The phantom began to lose patience and become annoyed.
“Is your mind so slow as not to understand? After carefully observing those now living, you sir, are the person I want to take over. Now, brace yourself, for in a few moments my soul will enter your body and yours will become the property of the master.”
Howard only had time to give one blood-curdling scream as the transformation between the body and their souls took place.
When Susan and the twins came home a couple of days later, they did not notice at first how Howard was glancing at them with such an evil expression. Working for the master as a living entity on earth had begun.
The town of Winfield had always been a pleasant place to live in, but then during the following spring a series of terrible accidents began to occur. The first took the lives of Howard’s wife and sons when his family went rowing on a lake near their home and the boat’s capsized. Howard valiantly tried saving the others, but failing, just about managed to swim back to safety. Despite his grief, people admired how he put even more effort into his job than before. A year later, while accompanying the most outstanding students in his high school on a bus trip to the city, the vehicle lost control and veered into oncoming traffic, exploding as it crashed into a number of vehicles. Many souls were lost, but luck was with Howard again, and he was the only one there to survive the tragedy.
Continuing to remain focused on his job, Howard gained many influential friends in the county, and was asked if he would run as state senator.
“Ah, yes, I would like to do that. I can be so much more effective when serving in that capacity,” he said enthusiastically, an unholy glare coming from his eyes.
Writing Prompt: I’m curious what other writers would do with this story. Has a build up for something sinister right before the epilogue. Send me what you come up with. Send to firstname.lastname@example.org
Confession is well-written dark tale that quickly grabs the readers with a grave and heavy tale of a mother with a sick hobby of killing her children. Her only regret is that she has yet to achieve the perfect score. I proudly stated before that Confession is indeed a heavy hitter on the Tome, and I still stand by that today.
Please visit Clive Carpenter’s site and tell him what you think of Confession!
Kristine Hall-Garcia, author of Unbloom, meets with Mr. Deadman on Friday at 10pm CST for a live interview.
Kristine is the writer of one of the more brutal stories featured on the Tome. Unbloom was so dark that it was one of the first to bear the NSFW label, which was done solely as a precaution for those brave enough to read stories on this horrible site at work.
Curious about the mind behind such a dark and demented story, Mr. Deadman will ask Kristine about her latest story on Deadman’s Tome, the inspiration behind it, and other projects she has been working on.
As a horny high schooler that spends more time checking out the girls than doing actual work, what would you do if you stumbled upon a dead girl chained to a bed? A dead girl that is moving, but lacks a pulse. A living dead girl that is spread eagle on a table and at the mercy of your sick desires. What would you do?
If you let her be, then you’re a horrible person for not ending her suffering. But this girl just cannot die. One could argue that it may not even feel anymore, and even if it did, she had lost her right when she died, right?
If you free her, then you’re a horrible person because now what is very dangerous and willing to attack anything it can is now free. Thank you. Your bleeding heart will help cause someone’s death in the future.
If you fingerbang her, then you’ve just engaged in necrophilia and could use years of therapy. By violating a corpse, you’re a sick fuck, but by violating a living corpse are you a rapist sick fuck? She can’t say no, and most certainly did not say yes. Is necrophilia rape?
We all know one or two assholes when we were in our teens that would more than likely do something of the sick fuck nature. Think about it, most teenage boys only really think of one thing and that’s finding something to stick their dick in. Any mother of a teenage boy can tell you that she finds her lotions, various lotions, and good god the Icy-Hot, in various states of use in the bathroom. She might also tell you that she find grapefruits with holes dug into them. Why is that? Because teenage boys are horny fucks. Would it be so hard to imagine that teenage boys would have their way with a living corpse?
Of course not. The actually reality isn’t what people have a problem with, it’s the ethics of the situation. Deadgirl, directed by Marcel Sarmiento and Gadi Harel, raises and explores the ethical considerations of violating an undead body and the pressure of group think. The boys don’t violate the living dead girl because they’re sick pigs. Rather, they go through a process of evaluating their options and eventually come to the conclusion that since she is dead that it wouldn’t matter what they do to her. They might be sick fucks, but once again, are they rapist sick fucks?
I found the movie to be executed quite well. The cinematography is great. The writing and story worked well together. But mostly, I enjoyed the film for its commentary. The teens seemed believable and a product of their time, and even after they had rationalized why fucking an undead girl is okay, they struggled with cognitive dissonance. Deadgirl isn’t a slasher or a zombie flick or even a traditional horror. Deadgirl is about teenagers struggling with the morals of a decision that they’ve made. If that sounds like something you would like to watch, then do it.
Deadman’s Tome has explored necrophilia a handful of times. I don’t expect readers to be appalled by the idea of porking cold dead flesh, but I wouldn’t be surprised if people had a debate over if it would be OK to poke cold undead flesh. Seriously, this is a question I extend to the readers. Is necrophilia a victim-less crime? So what if the corpse can move, that’s essentially a zombie, and no sane person would argue that zombies have rights, right?
Every horror film fanatic knows before getting into a horror film that couples that fuck are doomed to die and that black guy (sometimes girl) is most likely going to be first to die. The trope is so pervasive that one doesn’t even need to be a horror fanatic to know of it. But why is it that it’s the black blood that’s spilt first?
Is horror racist? After all, one would be hard press to find at least a dozen of horror films where black person survives to the end, and even harder to double that with a black lead role.
To honestly tackle this question, we first need to understand why white people dominate the horror scene. Writers work best when they write from what they know, from experience, and in the event they do not know, then from the research that they’ve done. Even the writers featured on this site rarely write about something that they have no clue about, or don’t feel comfortable tackling. As a white male and as a writer, I’m wouldn’t feel comfortable writing from a black man’s perspective, because I don’t honestly know the nuance of his life to really flesh out a compelling and believable narrative.
Though not exclusive to the horror genre, one could argue that the writers are simply stemming from what they know and understand. Most of the writers in horror are white, which explains why most horror films feature white lead roles. And let’s face it, if you’re not a lead role in a horror film, you’re probably going to die, which explains why the black man is often one of the firsts to go, and is hardly ever standing in one piece at the end. If the order in which the characters die is racist, then well, we’re talking about the order in which fictional characters die in a story that was most likely written by a white male without much of any thought of “is this racist”.
Perhaps there are the exceptional few, the few writers that get off on killing the black man first, but to believe that writers have some sort cabal against blacks in horror is insane, right? It’s not like there is some grand conspiracy to keep the black man out from horror, and to make that assumption without evidence of secret backroom meetings where whites secretly vow to systematically ban the black man would be insane.
George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead has a black lead role. Se7en has a black lead role. Halloween H20 has a black lead role. Blade has a black lead role. Event Horizon has a black lead role. Candyman has a black lead role. The white man is not systematically keeping the black man from entering horror.
So back to the question, is horror racist? No. White lead roles out number black lead roles, sure. But, that’s not a product of racism, not on face value alone. A studio would be engaging in racist behavior if they wrote OUT black characters or black lead roles because of racial preference alone.
The kill order in horror is not even racist. That’s right. I’ll even go as far as to say that the black guy dies first stereotype isn’t even racist. Jason and Michael Myers aren’t going out of their way to ONLY kill black people. These two murderous psychos kill everything that crosses their path: black, white, gay, lesbian, Jew, Muslim. These two iconic psychos are equal opportunity killing machines.
But, perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps, I’m missing something. Maybe Jason and Michael are the result of deep seeded racism, but that allegation would need some evidence other than they killed off a black character.
Unbloom by Kristine Hall-Garcia is more than a short horror about a wife that yearns for the affection of her husband, a man that is both a necrophiliac and a pedophile, but her Husband keeps a fuck toy in the basement. Unbloom is more than a brutal and gritty work of fiction, the story illustrates the simple but horrible fact that some people remain silent to the evil that others do.
The story focuses on the wife’s desperate plea for affection, to be loved like the way her husband loves the dead little girl. The wife knew her husband has this sick desire and has been enacting on it, and yet she rides along with it.
Thank god it’s only fiction, right?
While Unbloom is fiction, the reality is that much worse has happened and will continue to happen. In a world where men and women fuck farm animals and sell their kids for money, any thing is possible. Brutal tales like Unbloom serve as a bitter reminder and the complexity of the emotions involved.
DISCLAIMER: Deadman’s Tome is a dark and gritty horror zine that publishes content not suitable for children. The horror zine proudly supports the freedom of dark creative works and stands against censorship. Hardly any subject matter is too taboo for this horror zine. As a result, Deadman’s Tome may feature content your mother would not approve of. But she doesn’t control your life, right?
Last Meal of Adonis – S.E. Casey
It’s too bad she’s dead.
But the breathtaking landscape below strips away any guilt. A rushing kaleidoscope of color and life, the vivid greens of the trees, the blue swirls of the lakes, and the turbulent whites of the river rapids balance and contrast to paint the perfect picture. The crisp mountain air madly whistling past welcomes me in its breezy embrace. The scents and sounds rising from the unspoiled forest seduces and tempts. I wish that I had come sooner. She was right: this could be the most beautiful place on Earth.
Again, it’s hard to feel regret surrounded by such splendor, but still…
It’s too bad she’s dead.
She had begged me to take her here to see her ancestral lands off the mountaintop one last time, but she was too sick. The doctors warned of the complications such an arduous trip could have on her treatment. I convinced her to wait until she felt better or at least for a break in the chemo cycle.
Despite the efforts of the hospital, the best doctors, and the doting nurse with the sparkling blue eyes, she never got better—straight downhill all the way. The sicker she became the more she insisted on the trip, rationalizing that the aesthetics of the stunning vistas would be therapy for her wasting. As tenacious as she was beautiful, she persuasively argued that it would be a holistic treatment, a nourishing of the five senses to enliven the well-being of the whole.
However, her rationalizations were for naught, the risks outweighing the potential benefit. The doctors stood firm— it simply wasn’t prudent, no proven science backing her assertions. The last time she asked she was in such grave state that even the most ethically neglectful hospital wouldn’t have allowed it. She anticipated this privately divulging an elaborate escape plan to me. She knew this to be her final opportunity. However, her health was too important to indulge in this destructive whim. I denied her pleas with the repeated pledge that as soon as she got a little better we would go.
My words rang hollow as if the acoustics in the room had quit so offended by the deceit. I knew that she knew that I knew: she wouldn’t get any better—that day would never come.
She became angry, violently so, a flame burning its brightest before the end. She demanded the blue-eyed nurse reassigned from her care and sloppily ripped out her IVs. However, she was too weak to stand without help. I calmed her as only I could by forcing her to look deep into my eyes. The fires in her own faded as they always did. She couldn’t help but to stoke my jawline in admiration of its squared symmetry. She mumbled incoherently, but I knew her well enough to translate.
My God you are a beautiful man.
She made me promise that if she didn’t make it, I would go to her mountaintop and savor the view for the both of us. And that was all. She never mentioned it again, resigned to a world of four white walls and a chemical haze.
The funeral was two years ago to today. I delayed coming long enough, always with an excuse: commitments and maintenance from the job, family, various girlfriends, and various breakups… Never was there a convenient time for the long flight and subsequent drive into the remote forest.
But, true to my word, I am finally here.
Driving up the mountain as far as the rutted dirt road allows, I leave the rented jeep at the village sliced into the severe grade of the land. The huts here are simple, no modern amenities, every door opened wide. An uninviting blackness lurks behind each of these thrown doorways like a curse. It is as if the surrounding nature was so insulted by the walls built to shelter it out that it punished them with this ugly darkness.
The native women busying themselves around the close-cropped homes remind me of her with their striking good looks. There are no men around, and no sign they even exist. Perhaps in this old world place they are simply away on a hunt. However, this mystery is of little concern, the unrivaled beauty of every one of the exceptional women dominating my attention. And the best part, I get a few appreciative looks in return.
Something to look forward to on the way back down.
From the splendor that abounds in this unsullied corner of the globe, I wonder if some essence of beauty had been infused into these indigenous people. Could a beauty gene have evolved over the many generations who had lived in this verdant place? I remember her lusty eyes and sensuous hands tracing the muscle definition in the tone of my body. It’s not difficult to image her having had a genetic predilection, some hard-wired infatuation of beauty.
As she wanted, I pretend she is with me during the climb up the mountain. She pushes me every step up the rocky switchback trail impatient to see the resplendent sights from on top of the ivory cliffs. All those hours in the gym have me in good enough shape that there is no need to stop and rest. It’s a fortunate thing too, she having had to wait for so long.
The air is thin at the peak, but there is no time to catch my breath. She pushes me to the ledge and its wondrous view, eager to digest this beauty one last time. The scenery doesn’t disappoint, the landscape stretching below the overhang in all directions demanding to be savored.
And so we do.
And she pushes me.
I hear the forest over the rush of air. The wonderful percussion of the creaking trees, the melodic birdcalls, and the drone of the waterfall grows louder and louder. The lush canopy of the towering dark wood is an artistic marvel in both its whole and its detail, the veiny patterns of the mahogany big leaves coming into focus. Striking the top, I am rewarded with the distinctive leather-like scent released from the clean breaks of the blood-red branches. The larger limbs don’t snap caressing my body in bruise colored kisses instead.
The graceful animals below scatter across the forest floor. They race through the complex pathways visible from my perspective, worn trails cut into the flora from centuries of hunting in this unspoiled preserve. Many of the tracks lead to the conspicuous cropping of red stained rocks directly below. The boulders draw the eye, the rust colored splatter art sprayed across the alabaster stones telling a story. Like any master picture, it opens a window beyond me ripping Vanity’s mirrored hands from my eyes. And for the first time I see a glimmer of meaning and purpose.
In her forest, under branch and above root, amongst the birds of fine plumage and the mammals of keen pelt: an altar of stone where the beautiful feed.
Alexis stared at her reflection on the elevator door as if searching for the slightest imperfection. Her face a canvas for a cosmetic obsession. A mole appeared just below her right eye, but then disappeared. Light freckles formed to compliment her red hair, but were discarded for being too ginger.
“Alexis, you’re obsessing,” said Loca, rolling her eyes. The Mexican FuckBot wore a skin hugging black leather dress that could hardly contain her dairy cannons. “Just go with the dimples, these old perverts love that sweet sixteen look.”
“These old perverts also love it when you call them daddy,” said Lotus, as she smacked on a wad of gum. Her blue wavy hair obscured the right side of her face. Her black leather mini jacket was opened, revealing a leather bikini with a rack so plump and juicy it would make Hitomi J-Cup blush. The pale smooth flesh of her midsection was exposed like a blank canvas ready for some sploodge art. Her curvy Asian cakes spilt out from a tight leather short-shorts too short to conceal her black thong. “And they’re gonna be on me like flies on shit.”
“I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for me. If I don’t want to fuck me, then its not good enough,” said Alexis, as she bent forward to get a closer look at her reflection. Her gargantuan golden tits hung low, restrained only by a lacy bra and the sweetheart neckline of her low-cut strapless dress.
Her round plump ass covered only by a thin layer of skintight red polyester.
Lotus grabbed a handful of white privilege and moved a thirsty finger for that sweet American honey. Alexis slapped her hand away. “No lollygaggin until we’re done with the assignment,” snapped Alexis. She stood up, smacked her lips for a flush of red, and found confidence in her motherload of debauchery wrapped in a coat of that good ‘ole sweet southern charm. She embodied that three gallons of crazy in a two gallon bucket stereotype that them southern boys tend to flock to. “Them old perverts are gonna love me.”
The elevator doors opened, and a cacophony of indiscernible chatter, shrill whoos, and guttural yeahs accompanied by a loud pulsating soundtrack greeted them. Vivid hues bled together and illuminated the dark interior like a gay bat cave.
“This here is definitely a republican convention.” Alexis led the way with a modest hip sway, capitalizing on that sweet and innocent southern gal trope. Her green eyes scanned the room, lifting several threads of raw data from the faces, moving bodies, and inanimate objects. The information rushed through her sensors and uploaded on to her memory banks for cross examination. Her auditory sensors delivered a continuous string of chatter to a central processing unit that filtered for keywords and trends. “Y’all, I’m having difficulty locating the target. A lot of bodies to sort through.”
Lotus scanned a pocket of suits as they raised glasses to celebrate their latest political gains. “I located a few closeted homos for you Loca,” said Lotus, through an internal channel.
“Let me guess, it’s the fat ones. It’s always the fat ones that yearn for a good ole backcountry fuck,” Loca retorted.
The full-bodied bombshells walked over to a crowded bar. Lotus placed a seductive hand on the shoulders of an older man as her moisten lips whispered in his ear, “You wouldn’t mind if I take your seat, would you?”
Panic struck his face as his lips contorted, “Oh Jesus, I hope my wife isn’t around.”
Lotus’ arms wrapped around him. Her lips released Asian fever on his ear. “Oh, such a powerful man like yourself deserves a little something extra, right? I’m sure your wife wouldn’t mind.” Her lips kiss the old wrinkled flesh of his neck, and a surge of his sexual perversions flooded her mind. “Your wife doesn’t let you have fun in the backyard, does she? You play your cards right, and I’ll give you an all night invitation to mine.”
The balding man hesitated. His wrinkled, liver spotted mouth folded into a frown. “Are you could just leave before your wife sees you with me,” she said. The old fogie awkwardly fumbled out from Lotus’ clutches, and shuffled away. Lotus shook her head in dismay and straddled the stool like giant robocock. “Geez, who invited Bernie Sanders to this party?”
“Seems like a fish out of water, sugah,” said Alexis, as she sat next to her. She motioned the bartender for a drink.
“You should be impressed, you managed to find the one honest guy. Might be the only one in this fucking place,” retorted Loca, as she sipped on her margarita. Her organic taste buds, assisted by artificial sensors and relays, simulated taste. The alcohol absorbed and transmitted through what’s left of her organic tissue.
The bartender came around to Alexis. A baby-faced Aryan race with a hard-on for old bigots, which was evident by the swastika pupils. “What do you want?”
“A whiskey sour.” Alexis glanced at Lotus. “Darlin, make that two. Two whiskey sours.”
The bartender rubbed his thumb against his fingertips. Alexis’ face furrowed as if exposed to a fart from a sweaty ass teeming with wet butt-nuggets. “What’s the problem? You’ve got no money,” said the Hitler youth. Alexis leaned in and he cut her off before she could even send him a wink. “Your boobs do nothing for me.”
“How did Loca get a drink,” asked Alexis, discombobulated.
“You know why.” Lotus redirected her to a sight of a man’s hand grabbing a handful of meat that poked out from Loca’s dress. “I have a feeling we’re going to be wallflowers at this event.”
“Don’t be jealous,” retorted Loca, through internal channels. “If you’re nice, I might get you a drink but I’ll want something in return.” Loca gave them both a coyful wink.
“Darlin, these guys can’t all be gay. Most of them are married, and their wives are present,” said Alexis, as her processors continued the scanning through the bodies.
“Seeing Kommie Sanders swap spit with a Limbaugh in front of his wife does not bode well,” said Lotus, as she shook in horror. “Loca, where’s my drink dammit!”
“Don’t worry I got you covered,” said a dark haired, crooked jaw motherfucker, a smug sense of pretentiousness thick in every word. He inserted a ChipCard into the bar, and instantly the Hitler fag greeted him with a smile so white it must’ve been glossed with cum. “I’ll have a whiskey, neat. And she’ll have a…”
“Whiskey Sour. Make that two. One for me and for my friend.” Lotus’ smile sealed the deal.
“I’ve never seen such an incredible rack on an Asian before,” he said, as he stared at her skin trench.
“You’re one with words, aren’t you.” She maintained her smile.
“My mother always said I was gifted with a silver tongue.” He laughed as if he disclosed something that resembled a fun fact, grossly ignorant to the obvious fact that Lotus did not give a fuck.
Alexis spoke on an internal encrypted channel, “I found our target. He’s in the back booth with loaded security.”
“Neato. Does that mean we can waste him and blow this joint,” Lotus responded, while laughing at another stupid joke about some con man’s childhood.
“I reckon you didn’t catch that he has security. Fully loaded security. We gotta do this discreetly. Let’s see if this southern belle can get his attention.” Alexis chugged her drink. Her synthetic taste buds registered a flavor to transmit from a database. The alcohol, however, was broken down for material determined useful for body maintenance. Momma had yet to approve of the inebriation augmentation she had requested a year ago.
Alexis navigated through a den of snakes and smirked with cute dimples as she approach the dead squirrel wearing buffoon. The orange faced butt plug boasted about his business and claimed his father’s success as his own with arms that swung wildly. The Asshole’s moment at the helm of the glorious ship that is the U.S. of Fucking A had long since passed, but his insistence on his significance had not.
“They said I wouldn’t do it, but I did! And, I got Mexico to fucking pay for it. Oh, you better believe I had something old El Presidente! My huge, and I mean huge American cock!” The Don erupted with bombastic laughter.
Alexis blushed as she approached The Don. “Oh, dear.”
“Well, excuse me miss…”
“Don’t worry about little ole me. The name’s Alexis.” Alexis beamed with manufactured modesty. “Excuse me, Mr. Drumpf, I just wanted to thank you for your brave sacrifice for our country.”
He puckered his face, looked through her with piercing eyes, and frowned. “What’s your angle, tuts?”
“Bless your heart,” she said, confused by his sudden defense. “I’m only wanting to give you gratitude for your.”
“Bullshit,” interrupted The Don. “You waltz up here with your pornstar body and want to shower me with gratitude? No. What you want is to shower my dick with kisses, but for that you’re gonna have to wait in line.” He glanced at his black companion. “Chocolate Thunder, give the bimbo a number will you.”
The muscular bald black man pulled a card from his jacket and placed it on the table. “Look at that. You’re number twelve.”
Alexis grabbed the card and glanced at it as if stunned.
“Don’t worry, tuts. The card will buzz when your number is up,” said The Don, as he took a sip from his drink. “I’ll need you to be committed to your turn for dick sucking. To make sure you’re committed, my guys will come and get you.”
The Don squinted, spasmed as if passing a stubborn fart and then sighed. A brunette emerged from under the table, licking the Asshole’s essence off her lips. “Thank you, Mr. Drumpf,” said the brunette, glowing with enthusiasm.
“You still got a few more drops, baby.” The Don shoved her head back down. “There you go, eat Mr. Drumpf’s shit, baby.”
Alexis forced a smile and turned around. She walked away tearing the card into shreds. “The motherfucker has a fucking list! You believe that shit!”
“Jump ahead,” responded Lotus.
“The carrot skinned fucker is being serviced right now.” Alexis returned to the bar. “Lotus, where did you go.”
“I’m getting rid of a distraction,” she said, internally. Her hands roamed over the senator’s body. He snapped, grabbed her arms, and pinned her face against the tiled walls. “You fucking whore. I’m gonna fuck the sin out of you.”
“Finish up, will ya? I think we need to try something else.” Alexis’ voice flowed through her.
“Did your mom also teach you how to talk dirty,” said Lotus, as she licked her lips. “You should tell her that this little Japanese hoe loves it.”
The sleazy senator’s fingers spread her cherry blossom, while his head swelled with purple torment. “I’m doing this to teach you a lesson.” He shoved his cock into her wet pussy.
“Alexis, I see you’re not concerned about your Mexican sister. Did Mr. Drumpf’s racism get to you already?” Loca’s saucy accent transmitted internally.
“So am I.” Lotus moaned. Cytotoxic fluids gush out from her insides, flooding her vagina cavity with acid. Instantly, the Senator’s dick dissolved down to a bloody pulsating stump. He cried out for help, but a quick stab of a well-timed blade rendered such alarm impossible. Lotus sheathed the blade back into her wrist, and positioned the bleeding body on the toilet.
“Hardly,” said Alexis, while she sat at the bar, trying to sucker someone into buying her a drink. “I figured you’re so deep in the closet that you’ve found Narnia.”
Lotus stabbed the senator’s throat with her fingernails. She drained blood from his body, while a free hand searched for loot. A thin black wallet with a ChipCard, a dozen Benjamins, and presidential clearance card. She pocketed the wallet in the inside pocket of her mini jacket. Satisfied with the amount of sustenance received, Lotus dislodged her fingertips from his neck.
She squeezed her leather short-shorts over her thick thighs and plump ass. She freed one of her Asian melons and aimed an enlarged and enticed nipple at the metal privacy bolt. A thin arch of acidic substance shot from the pink love button and melted the bolt into the latch. She climbed over the stall.
“If Narnia is somewhere in the depths of Kristi-Kream’s asshole, then I’m about to find it,” said Loca, as she made waves out of the bloated pig’s ass cheeks.
“That’s disgusting,” Lotus added, as she checked herself out in the mirror. “Not to add pressure to this assignment or anything, but we’ve got a gift with an expiration date in the men’s room.”
Alexis slammed her fist into the bar, cracking the surface just beneath her hand. “What the fuck? I thought you understood that we need to be discreet.” She glanced around as she covered the damage from curious eyes.
“The motherfucker had it coming,” said Lotus, as she adjusted her hair.
“Lotus, meet me near Mr. Drumpf. I’ve got another plan,” said Alexis. The triple-D redhead bombshell snuck away from the bar, navigated through the throng of corporate owned, family-value praising, self-loathing homos. The roaming waves of light illuminated elder men engaging in all sorts of carnal activities. The wives drank their wine, and watched, while recording future blackmail material.
Alexis bumped into a suit. The tall form turned, revealing a face that triggered her alarm. A white bearded canvas with a familiar face tattoo. The entity did not speak, not even to apologize. The beast of a thing just lumbered away awkwardly. “Lotus, you need to hurry.” Alexis watched as the lumbering giant forced his way through the crowds. Her sensors failed to lock on. “Those guys that beat the shit out of Loca are here.”
“Are you certain,” asked Lotus, as she slithered out from the darkness to join Alexis.
“Yeah, I’m certain.” She shook her head and fixated her vision on Mr. Drumpf. Alexis glanced at Lotus and gave her an assuring smirk. The smoking fire bunny and her buxomly fucky-fucky strutted towards the bombastic carrot. Without any warning, Lotus leaned in on the man, and whispered a thread of hot lust into his ears.
“Pardon me, Mr. Drumpf, but I’m not waiting in line for you dick.” Alexis bent forward with her hands on the table, and watched as Chocolate Thunder and Mr. Drumpf’s other friends stared into her flesh chasm. “When I told my friend the news, that I would have to wait, she just couldn’t bare it.”
“No deal,” said The Don, as he shoved off the thick dose of Asian persuasion. “I get offers from bimbos like you all the time. You losers want it too much. No deal.”
Lotus and Alexis shared a look of confusion. “I was rejected, again!” Alexis yelled through their internal intercom.
“Blackmail might work,” responded Lotus.
“Not likely. He’ll double down and then we’ll be on the defensive.” Alexis body language matched her silent dialogue.
“Ladies, I’ve got this.” Loca emerged from the thick crowd. “I hope these two sluts aren’t bothering you.” Spanglish fell from her black lips in heavy waves, as she approached the booth.
The Don examined her up and down, and his wrinkled frown relaxed. He motioned for her to come closer, “You must be the black rose of Mexico.”
Loca blushed. She placed her feminine hand in his, and leaned in for a whisper. A sweet gift for one wrapped in a promise of political gain escaped from her lips. The Don stared through his people, captivated by the intoxicating offer.
“Leave a man to do what two hoes can’t,” joked Loca, as The Don escorted her towards the elevator.
The Don led Loca inside a small hotel room and closed the door behind them. Loca sat at the end of the bed, smiling at him as he fixed himself a drink. “So, what did my people tell you?”
“They’re your people, Miss Mexico. You should know,” said The Don, as he poured whiskey over ice.
“You and I both know my people are idiots. Blundering businessmen that aren’t willing to play ball, but they’re not me.” Loca examined her nails, and sighed. “That’s why I’ve come to you directly.”
“I’ve already got my hand in just about every export Mexico has, what more could you offer,” said The Don as he leaned against the desk with arms crossed.
“There’s a whole market that you have been blind to this whole time,” she said, taunting words seethed in a thin veil of courteous advice. “A market that would give you leverage over your rivals. So what if it involves exploiting children. They’re Mexican children, right?”
The Don furrowed his brow, squinted his eyes, and crumpled his wrinkled mouth into flabby folds. “Why would you want to go against your people? What’s your angle, Miss Mexico?”
“I want the same thing you want: Power.” Loca swayed her hips as she slithered closer to The Don. Her arms wrapped around him.
He pushed her away and chugged his drink. “What do you want from me right now.”
“Your full cooperation.” Her dry tone raised The Don’s guard. She shoved her long black nails into The Don’s neck. “No screaming for help, Mr. Asshole!”
She felt his blood pump through her fingertips. She slammed her knee against his junk, delivering a catastrophic world of hurt. She bashed her whoreknee against his damaged goods, again. His balls popped and white gunk and blood sprayed like a busted water hose. A mess of ball juice and dark crimson dripped from his saturated slacks. He fell to his knees.
Loca withdrew her fingernails and blood leaked from his perforated neck. “You want huge? You want to see huge? I’ll show you huge!” She inched her leather dress up her thunder thighs.
“Is eleven inches of pure Mexican meat huge enough for you?” She grabbed her thick flaccid cock like a bat and slapped it across his face as if going for a home run. A splatter of blood and saliva shot from his mouth.
“Remember, what goes around comes around!” Her thick meat smashed against his face like a raw 8lb steak. A tooth rolled along the carpet, with a trail of red driblets.
“Now open your fucking mouth,” she roared!
Air bubbles seeped out from his neck wounds, as his lips attempted to mumble something. Loca grabbed a handful of blond roadkill. “If you don’t open your fucking mouth. Miss Mexico is going to skull fuck the shit out of you!”
More air bubbles.
Two-feet of erect Mexican meat slammed against The Don’s right eye like a battering ram, and delivered a jack hammer lobotomy.
A pounding at the door shook Loca from the thrall of a good cranium fuck. She pulled out. Chunks of brain matter stuck to her cock. “Who is it?” She scanned for heat signatures, but did not detect anything near the door.
“Girls, is that you,” asked Loca, as she approached the door. Pieces of brain gunk fell from her stiff member.
The door flew open. Loca ducked as it slammed into her. The wood splintered, while a shockwave pushed her back. A fist battered through the door frame like a sledge hammer, clearing the way for a massive beast of a man. Its blue rageful eyes locked on her, while the familiar face tattoo seemed to glow.
“I’m guessing you’re here for round two,” muttered Loca. She touched the flesh behind her ear to communicate with her sisters, when the beast picked her up by her hair. Its titanium fist pounded into her chest like a battering ram and sent her plowing through a wall. She pushed herself from off the floor, and rolled to escape an incoming wave of mini-rockets. Explosions ate through the interior. Shattering the floor, scorching the carpet, and blasting chunks of gooey gibs from the frightened dudes that held each other in tender embrace.
Loca dodged another close encounter with a rocket. The side of her dress melted into charred flesh. She clinched her fist. Three gun barrels slipped through a small compartment on her wrist, and immediately released a dose of hot lead. Small bullets pierced through the colossal’s suit, picking at bits of flesh.
“You want me that bad, do you?” Loca charged at the roid-raged freak, while she liberated her chichotas from their leather restraint. He fired another mini-rocket from his shoulder cannon. The volatile shell blew through her thigh, taking with it a chunk of flesh and metal. She seethed with gritting teeth, and jump on the muscle-on-muscle freakazoid. He flailed around to get her off, while her nipples doused the fucker’s face with a downpour of cytotoxic fluids. His fleshy face boiled and bubbled to the sizzling chemical burn, as he collapsed to his knees.
Loca forced her milk bags back into the dress. A bit of acid leaked from her left breast and burned through the leather. She limped her way through the devastated hotel room, and into the hallway. The ceiling sprinklers released a stream of water, while an alarm wailed like a banshee.
“So much for discretion,” muttered Loca. She pressed a spot behind her ears. “No one’s worried about little Loca this time?” She dragged her injured leg as she inched her way towards the elevator. “Ladies?” She seethed, and punched the down arrow. No response. She punched it again, and noticed an emergency decal that advised to use stairs in case of fire.
“Jesus H. Christ, I’m not walking down a flight of stairs with this fucking leg,” she mumbled to herself. She pressed her index finger on the emergency switch on the control panel.
“Alexis! Lotus! C’mon, answer me.” The elevator doors opened and revealed a smear of blood. “I take it you two also had a party.” She limped into the elevator. “The silent treatment isn’t cool, ladies.”
The elevator doors opened and Loca stepped into a bloody warzone. Body parts strewn here and there like discarded bones after an all you can eat buffalo wings buffet. Blood ran down the walls and rained from the ceiling. Mutilated bodies with minutes of life flopped on the floor like fish out of water. The wounded crawled under tables and other obstructions for safety.
“Looks like the latina Turbo Slut is ready for round three!” the voice echoed throughout.
“Loca, over here!” Alexis’ voice shouted from the shadows.
“I hate it when they help each other.” The voice resonated along the walls. A slender bearded wonderbread with a face tattoo and cybernetic eye stood on a balcony. He fired a series of slugs from massive machine guns with rotary barrels that ran under his forearms. Chunks of wall splintered, tables shattered, and burst of blood pumped from the scattered bodies.
Two full-bodied silhouettes ran from booth to booth, barely escaping the line of fire. Loca did not need her visual sensor to know that they were Alexis and Lotus. She raised her gun hand at the cybernetic cyclops, when something that had to have been a silverback gorilla pummeled her. She found herself snug in a bear hug, ensnared by tree trunk of arm painted with the blackest of black.
“NiggaPunk got you, bitch,” grunted the gorilla before he executed a body slam. Loca’s vision fluttered. Pixels and static scattered throughout.
Loca kick wildly. Her legs clutched and held in the grip of a wild ape. Partially blind, She fired rounds from her gun arm. The sound of punctured flesh and wet blood, followed by the guttural grunt of pain, told her that she hit her target.
“NiggaPunk about to get fucked up!” She wiggled out from his grasp, and fired at the bastard until the magazine ran dry.
NiggaPunk hunched over and ribbons of blood seeped through his hands. Metallic spikes ran along his head like a morning star. Shades covered his eyes like a Blade wannabe. Golden teeth poked out from behind thick lips that folded into a snarl. NiggaPunk ripped off his red muscle shirt, and pounded on his chest like a fucking ape. Thick globs of saliva flung from his foaming mouth, while the bullet wounds sealed to a close.
“Your ass ain’t nigga cheap,” said Loca, as she backed away with her dick in her hand like a shotgun.
“I’m gonna use that dick as a toothpick, you fucking piss flipper!” NiggaPunk charged the Mexican tranny. Loca cocked her erect dick and shot wad cytotoxic jizz. The acidic cum splattered on the gorilla’s face, but his animalistic rage drove him through it. NiggaPunk rammed his spike head against Loca’s chest, knocking her into a mess of scattered tables.
“Fuck me,” she said, as the winced at the sight of her ruptured fun bags. Blood leaked from the craters in her chest, while fractured titanium exposed sparking circuitry. “Someone needs to put this fucking gorilla back into its cage.”
Like a goddamn stereotype, NiggaPunk pounded on his chest like an alpha ape high on testosterone. Even more typical, he pounded on the floor like a frenzied King Kong boasting for territory.
Loca rolled on to her stomach. She raised her ass up into the air. The ground shook as the wild ape drew closer. She closed her eyes, and waited. The ground shook harder. The chairs, the tables, the bodies all vibrated as the beast drew near. The ground around her splintered as the silverback gorilla honed in on her. His hands wrapped around her lower back. She smiled. “I hope NiggaPunk is an ass man.”
NiggaPunk’s chest cratered. Chunks of dark meat and organs blew out from his back. His arms and legs grew weak like wet noodles. The wild beast collapsed on his ass, where he bled like a blood piñata.
“Fuck Harambe,” muttered Loca, as she pulled herself off the floor. The flesh on her chest had begun to reform, but the dented titanium and exposed circuitry remained. The huge gash on her thigh had reformed, with flesh rebuilding around the exposed electronics.
She grit her teeth, fought through the pain, while scanning for Alexis and Lotus. She found them. Alexis’ voluptuous triple-D breasts bounced as she showered cycloptic Wonderbread with a slew of bullets. Heavy machine guns attached to her wrists smoked as the rotary chamber spun.
Lotus’ thick thighs and big ass wobbled as she ran towards a burly thug. Blood splattered on her midsection, as she punched through a motherfucker’s chest.
Loca attempted to communicate with her sisters again, but no response. She noticed Wonderbread had pinned Alexis under fire, and raised her gun arm to rectify the problem. A quick burst spurted from her barrels. A stream of tiny bullets nipped at the red-eyed cyclops’ face. The face tat motherfucker grabbed his face, and groaned.
Alexis exploited the distraction and sent the squirming cybernetic cyclops a fatal dose of headshot. A gusher of blood sprayed from Wonderbread’s mutilated neck, as the remains of his body plummeted to the ground.
“Loca, are you okay,” said Lotus, internally. “I found the fucking communication jammer.”
A wide grin grew across Loca’s battered face. “I’m alive. Fucked up, but alive.” Toxic milk leaked out from her punctured breasts. “Alexis, what happened?”
Alexis groaned as she limped over the slew of bodies. “These motherfuckers knew we would be here.”
Loca limped towards the bar. “You’re sure about that?”
“They blocked all communication with a jammer, and used tech to throw off our scanners and heat sensors. Yeah, I would say they knew.”
“I think she was being sarcastic,” chimed Lotus.
“You ladies made a mess of these fuckers,” said Loca. Her hands feeling through a jacket on the bar. “I think the military will be looking for us now.”
“It’s not our fault,” Lotus exclaimed. “Five billion changes people, and those thugs and gangbangers did most of it.”
Loca rifled through the contents of a purse, pulled a few cards and a wad of cash. “Just don’t let them go to waste.”
“We don’t have time for that,” said Alexis, tone rushed and alarmed. “These fuckers knew we would be here and there’s a reason for that.”
Mr. Deadman explores various headlines in Real Horror – a writer runs into a burning house to save his manuscripts and a school eliminates homework because the students perform terribly. Followed by a drunk reading of the Other White Meat.
Also, Mr. Deadman rants about the Book of Horrors II.