Madhouse

The dream I had last night:

My dream-shell was a child; I must have been six at the youngest, eight at the oldest. I was accompanying my mother as she ventured on a quest down the hall of what seemed like close-quarter apartments, every room was tiny. It really seemed like a tattered, abandoned medical institution refurbished into a slum dormitory. The staff may have abandoned the place, but the mentally deranged remained. 

My mom went door to door, peeking into every sad, densely lit room; occasionally rummaging through the garbage and piled rubbish among the floor. 

All around us, people were yelling. Some wanted to be left alone, others chastised invisible compatriots and negligent friends all along the dilapidated hallways and lonesome hospital rooms that appeared comfortably furnished. I was watching a television mounted in the corner of the hallway. An advertisement for a water park showed children careening down waterslides and playfully rampaging in a swimming pool. Meanwhile, in the corner of my eye, an overweight but lusciously curved woman dolled herself up, applying makeup, dressed in shaded lingerie outlined in fluffy crimson trim. She approved what she saw in the mirror and laid in her bed next to a blank mannequin. 

From further down the hall, an imposing growl grabbed my attention. I turned my head to see where it was coming from. What seemed like a dog dressed in human clothing was sitting on its hind legs, rocking back and forth. That was the direction my mom wanted to go next. When we reached that area, a group of people were ridiculing a lone, older, stress-worn woman. They grabbed her collection of mini-sized plastic dolls, each one capable of fitting in the palm of a hand, and they threw them in a garbage can then left in sadistic laughter. The tormented woman agonized over the discarded plastic dolls screaming, “Are they dead!?”

My mom disrupted my attention, still searching and gathering. She told me to sift through the clutter that was directly near what I thought was a ravaging dog. It turned out to be a mutated being; it had human skin but it walked on four sets of clawed paws. It was dressed in a shirt and shorts, it even wore a wool cap, but it had a canine’s elongated snout and a makeshift muzzle that was really a broad, white leather belt that it seemed capable of tearing open if instigated. 

I began sifting through the pile as mother wanted me to and sure enough, it wasn’t a matter of if but when – and the hairless beast lunged at me. Its front claws were digging into my shoulders but all my strength was directed to keeping its strapped, vicious teeth away from me. It’s mouth was directly in front of my eyes and they began growing larger and longer.  

And I awoke.

Air-Gorilla Warfare

The dream I had last night:

 

There was a fleet of heli-carrier’s hovering over the palaces of Rome, Italy. A few citizens fled for cover, most stood in awe of the monstrous floating mechanical islands. Shortly, a swarm of dark garbed, winged troopers soared in ring formations, circling the heli-carriers. They were winged-gorillas armed with assault rifles and strapped with ammo-vests. 

Then, I awoke. This has already given me ideas for stories, but the visual of the winged-gorillas attacking the heli-carriers over Italy was glamorous. It would make an exquisite painting.

Aquatic Blood Prophecies

This was the other dream I had the previous night. It started in sequence after the other story - Laughter in Crimson - ended. The transition was flawless....

Exiting the walls of the institute, I met four friends awaiting my arrival. We promptly made our way to the boardwalk where a couple of friends of ours, actual gypsies, a brother and a sister, were performing magic tricks as a sideshow attraction at the aquarium.

We had access to the rear entrance as guests to the performers, which felt cool; even cooler was being able to see the underbelly of the aquarium. Gypsy Brother opened a door to what one could have assumed to be a small maintenance shack, but instead of tools and brooms there extended a staircase down into darkness.

Without hesitation we followed the performing duo into the cellar where we were met by a single light showing us a garage-sized room full of control panels and all sorts of gauges (temperature, pressure, etc.).  Another door around the corner of the stairwell opened. A haggard woman stepped from behind. She told us hello the way a cannibalistic witch encountering two lost twins would say hello. She stepped into the light, dressed purely in black; a netted rose hate like ladies wore one-hundred years ago to the fair with a classic gown to match.

“We're here, Nanna,” said Gypsy Sister.

“Splendid,” said Nanna in her squeaky, innocently malicious voice. “Go on you two, but first why don’t I show the two of you a preview of the show?”

The siblings trotted off leaving the two of us behind.

“Come here, lovely girl,” Nanna instructed. She unveiled two empty jars from the unknown universe beneath her garb. “It’s an easy trick.” She placed one jar to the side of Lovely Girl’s head, with her ear within the opening. “Get ready to hear the ocean.”

Nanna lifted up the other jar except now there was a lengthy needle, at least a foot long, protruding from the center. Nanna shoved the needle through Lovely Girl’s ear until it exited out the other end. Blood instantly began filling both jars without a single drop spilling to the floor.  

Once drained of life, Nanna pulled the jars away from Lovely Dead Girl’s ears, letting her fresh husk crumple to the floor. I felt nothing. I wasn’t afraid; I wasn’t excited in any way.

Nanna handed me one of the blood jars. “Look,” she said to me. I did. I looked in the blood; maybe I looked past the blood, but within was the world around us. I could see the Gypsy Siblings performing their act. I could see the dolphins flipping through the air. But in the clouds, above all of that, within the clouds was a dark presence gathering itself, slowly growing stronger. Destruction was among us. Annihilation was coming.

Laughter in Crimson

This was a dream I had last night. It left me chilled and a tad frightened.....

Visiting my cousin at a juvenile mental institution, he was in the middle of a class located in a science laboratory, all the students were dressed in white jumpsuits. On the television was a repeated showing of the incident that sent him off the deep end. During the halftime of a major sporting event, my cousin reached out to hug his father when a heart attack claimed the man’s life. My cousin caught his dying body and held him until he died. He then yanked the boy behind him to the ground and broke his neck and then broke his dead father’s neck. It replayed on an endless loop while everyone watched it except him. The psychologist on duty was using it as a tool in some form of group therapy.

Assured that my cousin was accommodated appropriately, even though he never lifted his head up once to look up at me; just kept coloring a picture he’d drawn, I left the classroom to meet with a detective and a staff member to fill me in on details of a string of murders plaguing the institution. Mostly young women strangled or stabbed. There had been a man found stabbed much more violently than the women, but it was believed that he had stumbled upon the murderer during his ritualistic killing and ruined the murderer’s momentary bliss. While they explained it to me, I felt like on the horizon I could see what the killer saw; the locations of the murders, the blood flying in the air, my hands around their throats. I could even feel the cold steel of the knife and the peeling off of blood soaked gloves from a clown outfit – yellow with multi-colored polka dots and white ruffles on the cuffs.

I checked out the locations myself. One was at the bottom of a stairwell leading from a rear parking lot to the nurses’ changing stations. The area was cold and resounding. The entire time there were two men, I’m assuming they were janitors as they were dressed in grey jumpsuits. They kept watching me, talking about me. Frustrated, I chose to confront them, but they disappeared.

The other murder happened inside the storage unit closer to the back of the institution. Entering, there was a walkway stained with blood where the man, the groundskeeper, had stumbled upon the murderer during his killing. The walkway was paralleled by a fenced in storage house where old furniture, books, and old everything else were kept before they were auctioned off, donated, or forgotten. While studying the scene, again, the room was cold. I almost felt in the presence of omnipotence. I definitely felt eyes watching me. I turned to see a shadow fleeing the area, but no sounds of a door being opened or closed; but someone else had been in there with me.

On my way to share my thoughts with the Institution’s director, I crossed paths with a tall, heavy set man who seemed naturally strong. He was dressed in a white muscle shirt and the bottom half of his jumpsuit with the rest hanging behind him. I stopped. “Excuse me, sir,” I said. He slowed down but hesitated to turn. I rushed over to him before he could have another thought. “Sir!”

He turned around. I saw fear in his eyes. “You,” I said. He tried moving back but I grabbed him by his shirt and insinuated major violence with my other hand and malice in my eyes. “I’ve got you, motherfucker.”

In failsafe wall hidden behind his locker paneling was the yellow clown suit I had seen in my vision along with a clown makeup kit, a rainbow wig, latex gloves, and a knife that had been rinsed well but still held traces of dried blood.

The killer had been hauled off, the drama had died down; the campus was quiet again. Suddenly, I felt ill. I felt frightened. I turned around – at the entrance of the stairwell leading to the changing station was another clown dressed in a red pointed hat, a red and black outfit, smiling a wicked red smile, waving at me with bloodied white gloves. Then, he shuffled back into the institution.

What Came First, the Death or the Music?

Dying is something I look forward with more excitement every day/year/hour. Thinking about dying has become an eccentric hobby. I think about it at least once every hour; half the time a suicidal thought hosting one of those episodes.

It's been nearly two decades since I've considered performing the deed. The world is full of too many assholes needing to be outshined and dethroned by my spectacular bastard ways; I'd be committing a disservice to the universe by decomposing the sweet six feet under (Vive Six Feet Under!) despite the delight of being rid of God's crotch rot that is humankind.

When I think of dying these days, I think about the the techniques, the amounts of pain to be endured; even about my chances of survival that will hopefully manifest itself merely as long term suffering before imminent death.

Music doesn't play a role in these morbid visions (Vive Sepultura!!), but certain albums and songs make themselves known at the most essential moments in your life. One of those albums happened to be Staind's major label debut Dysfunction.

The grim overtone of the album immediately sparked a sonic rapport with me despite my mediocre reception to the music, but it was Aaron Lewis' honest, downtrodden lyrics that gripped me coldly, kicked me in the face, and had me knitting yarn nooses like they were holiday stockings.

Four songs especially:

Just Go - My relationships with my parents has never been what society would accept as "normal;" yet, I can't help but consider generations of joyful meatbags sitting together and consuming mounds of food without a single liquor bottle cracked over someone's skull "normal." Still, this song extends beyond them and into my immediate family and even some of my so-called friends. I've been betrayed and abandoned by both family and friends before; it will happen again. People come and go. At least now my primary concern will be to ensure that all of my borrowed belongings have been retrieved.

The death nail I imagine while hearing this song now is using an industrial clamp to steady a hunting knife so I may lunge at it, allowing it to stab me in the center of my neck. The blade needs to be long enough for the blade's tip to perforate straight through the nape of my neck.

Home - The album was released during the time I was involved in the greatest relationship I'd ever experienced. To this day, I know that if I only have one friend in the world, whether it's the woman I want to be with forever, or the dog dumb enough to stay by my side, I'll be just fine. And, eventually, I came back home and she was gone.

No twisted thoughts on this one. It just makes me miss being in love. It's difficulat and nearly trivial being a romantic with no one to romance; so, I focus on the macabre. It's humorous as Hades.

A Flat - When you do something amazing and no one is around to witness it, sometimes it's frustrating. I knew I was destined to do something amazing at a young age, but I never had any support because what I watned for my future wasn't what anybody else wanted for my future. According to the people I was supposed to trust and seek advice from, being twelve years old and writing your first novel is parallel to sitting in your room all day, being a lazy shit, and not doing a God damn thing. In regards to the friends that supposedly understand you, practicing an instrument three hours a day is nowhere near as important as getting loaded and telling dick jokes.

This song concocts an image of pasting glass shards on to strips of tape and wrapping those strips around my head so I may proceed to bash my skull against every hard surface in the room.

Me - With this tune, let me just say my fantasy is to carve a thin hole through a door to place a lengthy knife blade between; reinforce the knive's stability and strength with industrial adhesive, and slam that door as hard as possible, jamming that blade through my skull.

Too bad the best song of the entire album is the hidden track. And, too bad Staind went on to, you know, suck.

Demonic Techno-Warfare

Standing on the rooftop of a building high enough to showcase the landscape of the whole city, I am distracted from the speckled city lights and depressed colors by the sound of police sirens and gunfire. At a street corner blocked from my view I see police lights accompanied by additional gunfire. Soon, three convicts, chained together, roll into my vantage point; one of them writhing in despair – the heaviest one. The other two try dragging him down the abandoned city block but his heavy carcass doesn’t gain them any favor. A second convict is then shot and immobilized. The third fleeing offender is left alone to contemplate what this frightened attempt at a mistrustful freedom is truly worth.

Miguel, the wounded prisoner, is shipped to the nearest hospital for treatment. While in recovery, three flashy individuals enter his hospital room. Two of them appear to be the entourage – a man and a woman, both dressed in black; the woman fashioning a tight dress, the man in a fine leisure suit. The head of this mysterious trio is wearing a black three-piece with a red long-sleeve underneath; his hair black and slicked back to a fine point. All three of them bore the flesh of sun deprived statue.

The main man handled a briefcase which he slammed on the wounded Miguel’s legs, rudely awakening him. Before Miguel could shake the cobwebs from his i.v. drips, the main man established the trio as representatives of a private company hired by Miguel’s father to look out for Miguel’s current best interests. Main Man opened the briefcase, revealing built-in functioning laptop with a hi-def monitor. It played a video recorded by Miguel’s father explaining that if he signed with this organization, all of his medical bills and legal issues would be dealt with and absolved if he were to attend a dinner seminar. Naturally, the morally feisty Miguel agreed and signed his name on the electronic writing pad.

That evening, a fully healed Miguel and I arrive in a cul-de-sac of a slightly upscale neighborhood. We approached one of the less flamboyant homes and awaited our hosts. As we waited, we were soon joined by three men dressed in prideful leather western gear from the tops of their freshly steamed cowboy hats to their shining, horse-kicking boots; thick mustaches sprawled across all of their upper lips with the thinnest one draping the peripherals of his cheeks and lips with a Fu Manchu style.

“Don’t think they’re gonna be servin’ tacos at this shindig, fellas,” said the shorter redneck, directing the discouraging remark towards Miguel and myself. Neither of us responded, which left him a window to add to his racist tirade. “Whatsa matter boys, no speakin’ ze Engless? Well, you know how to wash a dish you’ll do just fine in this place.”

Before I could stab him in the throat with my fountain pen the door opened. We were greeted by Main Man. He welcomed us into the home, delighted we could attend. While his two assistants prepared the seminar he led us to the dining room. The table was sprawled with delectable entrees, foods and fruits of all kinds – turkey, apples, oranges, and dishes filled strawberries and various assortments of nuts, cheeses and crackers. Certainly I had never set eyes on such a delightful smorgasbord, and judging by Miguel’s drooling mouth neither had he. However, the three rednecks saw fit to ruin all pleasantries before any of them could even begin.

“I don’t need no picture show,” spoke the same one that heckled Miguel and I outdoors with his thick, southern country boy accent. “What’re y’all sellin’ here and what’s it gonna cost me and muh buddies, because, frankly, this is all a little too fruity for us. So, what’s the deal?”

“The deal,” said Main Man through snow-colored lips and increasingly infuriated black eyes, “is that I do not like rude people, sir. And ever since your arrival, you have proven to be anything but.”

While the four men stared one another down in a game of commercial cat and mouse, from down the hall of red carpet and red walls approached a staggering figure untouched by any light. It moved as though a sordid will overpowered its broken legs as it stomped and slid its way towards us.

What were once three rednecks had mysteriously become two; no one aware of what had happened to the third, but there was no time to ponder as this ghoulish creature continued creeping its way towards out location until finally, it’s true form showed itself in the light. It was an undead duplicate of the Fu Manchu redneck dressed in a gray, tarnished and torn space suit.

“What the fuck?” gasped Fu Manchu Redneck.

“What fuck, indeed,” said Main Man, stepping closer to Fu Manchu Redneck. “Your sexual tastes are no secret here, nor are the methods you practice in acquiring your sweet, sick treasures.”

Main Man swooped into Fu Manchu’s personal space with enough nervous force to knock him into one of the kitchen seats which immediately produced black leather straps, binding his arms behind the chair, spreading his legs wide and in welcoming fashion.

“How bout a taste?” asked Main Man.

Zombie Space Fu Manchu Redneck lunged at Fu Manchu Redneck’s crotch, tearing into his pelvic flesh and proceeded to administer a bloody, gore soaked oral sex session.

Racist Redneck stumbled in shock and horror while Miguel and I looked on, slightly frightened but definitely astounded more than anything else.

“You aren’t without your own faults,” Main Man switched to Racist Redneck.

With a summoning blink, Main Man’s two assistants took hold of Racist Redneck by his arms and in the blink of a hummingbird’s eye, he was transformed into a mutant frog the size of a baby pig, with horns protruding from its head like those of a bull.

“But before we can cook the meal, it needs stuffing.”

With that, Main Man’s assistants each grabbed a hind leg and pulled heavily, splitting the frog’s backside wide open, blood spilling to the neatly polished white tile floor. Main Man dipped his hand into the stuffing bowl and began applying it to the insides of Racist Redneck Frog’s posterior, sampling a bit of bloody stuffing every now and then; even feeding his two assistants a crimson handful.

As this happened, Fu Manchu Redneck achieved his climax from Zombie Space Fu Manchu Redneck’s violent crotch play, and as he ejaculated his head exploded with an uncontrollable volcano of semen erupting from his neck, spilling all over the dinner table and its delicacies.

Miguel and I were devastated. Then, Main Man turned his attention towards us, converting our devastation into outright fear because it was at that moment that we eventually realized we were in the presence of wickedly demonic forces, possibly Satan himself.

“This way,” directed Main Man towards the sliding patio doors. Stepping through them threw us into a different dimension. We were now thousands of feet above land on a castle’s tapestry reaching above storm bearing clouds occasionally flashing lightning and crackling thunder.

Main Man went on this diatribe of how they were gathering the pieces necessary for the annihilation of everything touched by heaven – Earth, space, technology – everything was to be damned, and they needed right minds and bodies for the job. That’s when Main Man grabbed Miguel and tossed him over the ledge, but to no one’s knowledge, Miguel’s form shifted into an albino insect-like creature. It clutched a piece of the tapestry’s brick and swung to safety, securing itself to the side of the tapestry’s neck. He was then blanketed by a white aura and vanished.

I, on the other hand, was led within the tapestry’s dwellings. Long gone was the suburban household with the scrumptious spread and mutilated rednecks. Now, we were in a scientific warehouse where silver lined every inch of walls and floor, and silver computers filtered information while researchers studied lab results.

Main Man walked me towards a testing box. I was placed within, clueless as to what was about to happen. I heard machines gearing up and suddenly the box began tearing my skin from my body yet I felt only a tinge of pain, like getting a tattoo, but then more tools – saws, scalpels, and tubes emanated from the damnation box and began boring into my very soul, slicing at it, stretching it inside and out. All the pain was in my mind. I went numb.

The door to the damnation chamber opened. Weakly, I exited the same as I had entered, if not for a lingering buzz in the back of my head. There was something different though – the room was brighter than before. Main Man and all of the scientists were nowhere to be found. A blinding light had sprouted from outside and all of the computers were downloading new information.

Miguel had come back. He had been an alien angel sent to lead his platoon into this dimension. The buzzing in the back of my head grew larger and louder, and continued doing so until I awoke in my bed.

Dancing with the Damned

Vulture needed his screening room and film projector running perfectly. All the masterminds in the genetics field were in attendance as well as some potential backers from all over the world with pockets that dipped all the way down into the planet’s core. Vulture’s future in science and my future in outstanding paychecks rested on today’s presentation.

While attending to my final inspection over the projector, I heard heavy rustling in the air vents above. Reena attempted slithering past me as if we were playing a demonic hide-and-seek game, and while the spoiled odor of her slime trail masked any specific location, her pale, happily demented face caged behind her straight jet black hair exposed her whereabouts ever time. Sure enough, there she was up above, staring at me through the grated barrier gleefully, eerily; smiling so hard, her teeth seemed about to shatter and her eyes ready to burst from their sockets. Reena was too loud for the darkness.

The projector’s lens needed one more cleansing which allowed Reena the opportunity to slither one of her pale, purplish tentacles through the vent and smacked the side parietal of my skull. It brought her great joy. She laughed like a witch gutting a Kansas orphan, scuttling all the way down the eastern air ducts. I, on the other hand, could only smile. I was looking forward to decapitating her later.

Lackey answered my radio call. My projector maintenance work was done, Lackey would see to the actual running of the presentation.  It was time for me to deal with the real problem I had been assigned to elucidate.

Walking down the spottily lit corridor, I held on to the cool air emitted by the air conditioner despite Reena’s filthy stench soiling the overall placid atmosphere. To the right was the exit door, and after opening it the heat blasted all across my body while the bastard of a sun blinded me temporarily. After my eyes readjusted, I unsheathed my Jericho 941 and set myself in the ready position. What good that did me. I turned the corner of the building descending the stairs – AnoMolly still got the drop on me, pumping a slug brutally through my right shoulder.  I didn’t think I was that much out of practice but if a half-witted, malformed, genetic jigsaw could get the drop on me, I was definitely out of practice.

Downstairs was Vulture’s back entrance. Apparently he had already hired one cleanup crew to take care of Molly, but it appeared she greeted them with a rocket launcher. That would have explained the charred hull of what used to be an automobile and ashy remains of its passengers. The driveway extended to a cemented slope where the staircase ended. The slope led to the backdoor where Molly sequestered herself. From that section she had access to the kitchen and from there, any part of the house she desired. I needed her to stay put, so naturally I did the most irresponsible thing anyone could do in that situation. I rushed the corner, opening suppression fire to keep Molly from having a clean show while I found cover between the charred car and the wall flanking right from the open gate.

As I reloaded the backdoor swung back and forth from open to close. I was able to get a good look at Molly. She was sporting a cleaver angled through her forehead, blood soaking her dirty blonde hair and pink bathrobe, holding a 9mm (Bersa Thunder, I think). She looked like a zombie but she was fighting like a modern gladiatrix, and behind her was the last of Vulture’s money. Molly didn’t know what it was; she only knew it was important to that smarmy, egotistical wretch of a man. Whatever she had planned for it, I needed to stop her. My paycheck was in jeopardy. Why she hadn’t set fire to it or chopped it up was beyond me, and frankly I wasn’t in the position or the mood to question why.

I timed the swinging of the door, took aim, fired; nailed her just below the cleaver’s blade. That sent her brains smearing and her head rocking. Unfortunately, it also sent her running to the kitchen. I hauled ass down the slope and through the corridor. I couldn’t lose her. I entered the kitchen quickly but at a squatting level. I cleared the room. I’d lost her.

SHIT.

I lost her.

My gun was ready, my ears attentive. The kitchen was surprisingly spotless. I would’ve been proud to store my food in such a speckles abode.

There was silence, and then the sound of sneaky, hustling footsteps along fluffy carpet. I aimed in that direction, catching a glimpse of the tail-end of Molly’s bathrobe. I sank to a crouching position before turning the corner. Gun ready, I sprang the corner to discover an empty hallway with three doors to choose from. What doubled my frustration was that I hadn’t heard any doors slam.

I hadn’t….HEARD….ANY….doors…..SLAM. You think I would’ve gotten the hint, but again – I was out of practice.

Molly came crashing down on top of me, piercing my back with one of Vulture’s trophy blades. The pain was powerful, but my adrenaline and animosity was overflowing. I had no idea this bitch had learned to climb walls.

She tried carving the blade down my backside, but I hoisted both of us on to my feet. I kept thrashing to keep her from gaining any leverage on the blade’s handle. Finally, I was able to grab the back of her bloody robe and flip her over, down to the ground. Her head landed near my feet. I unloaded my gun clip in her gut and stomped the cleaver through the remains of her skull, and I didn’t stop until her face was a pile of red and white mush and teeth.

The money was in the rear entrance, where Molly had left it. I walked back out into the damning heat, I think the blade was still in my back but my body was already going numb, I’d lost enough blood to save a homeless vampire colony; I had the shirt to prove it.

I walked up the slope and collapsed where the edge met the bottom of the stairs. I may have passed out for a while because I suddenly saw all black, but I heard a scraping noise. My eyes opened to see Walthorpe dragging the burnt car out of the drive way with a single hand.

Walthorpe was a huge individual. If Bigfoot became a professional bodybuilder, he would be Walthorpe, because Walthorpe was a creature that could be taken for a Bigfoot; brown bushy hair all over his gigantic body structure. And he did enjoy weightlifting.

With the car out of the way, the medical unit came in to do their thing. I just wanted someone to get me out of the god forsaken heat. I still had some decapitating to do.

Journeying through a Dead Tree Nucleus

In the deadest heat on land that was either the ass-end of Nigeria or the Brazilian-waxed scrotum of Arizona, my associate dressed like an indie record label producer and I accompanied the witch doctor back to his dead grass and dead tree hut. The entire landscape felt raped; frequently, violently cindered by man’s war and nature’s luck.  The shaman had built a fence of dead grass and trees, like his hut, which served as the nucleus of his planetary existence, and an escape from all the savages beyond it.

We entered the hut, greeted by an enflamed spirit pit spitting fire between the elephant tusks that enclosing the ritualistic blaze. After us three became situated around the pit the shaman presented me with a smoking pipe the length of my uncle’s sawed off 12-gauge which he politely named – Killer Horse Cock.

After lighting it with the pit-fire, a secondary journey began. The inside had served its purpose, we ventured outdoors; the circling fence had grown sharp teeth along the hedges. Associate Producer and I walked into the mouth of this nature’s spiritual plane, accepted an uplifting into the spirit plane, and we were now stumbling all across the spirit plane. I disappeared from my own sight and time.

I awoke atop a heap of boulders with a higher, larger boulder shading me; all of us nestled in a natural resting spot near the outer core. Sundown was underway.

From that trajectory I noticed a large concert stage in the southeast. I couldn’t see people but I could differentiate the music instruments and as eclectic as they were, the music was maddening. Nowhere else on the planet was anyone hearing these noises, such brilliant noises that could be created by only some of the most untamed spirits and I was privileged enough to savor them until sight and time disappeared again. They returned in the mouth of this nature’s nucleus and from what I could see from the teeth the fence grew a previously short time ago, this mouth had enjoyed itself a tidy feast while I had been discovering the loveable jams.

Between each tooth were dead tree wrappings with human bodies cocooned inside, definitely a minimum of ten; all wrapped and positioned upright as if prisoners of an obsessive-compulsive spider. Doctor Sham An and Associate Producer traded fart jokes behind me while I walked around the dead, mouth of this fed nature’s nucleus. Sooner or later, I halted in front one of the lifeless husks. I tore away the wrapping at the chest, aware of exactly what I was doing, and I did not stop digging and ripping away until I saw bones – the chest and ribs. I looked around them, within them and I felt relieved without knowing why, as though an epic question had just been answered.

Doctor Sham An embraced me with a brotherly arm over my shoulder and with Associate Producer, we all embraced the new happiness.

Declining Ascension

Climbing the clouds by stepping on the wind,

Kicking windows while the rush of the flight makes it difficult

To breathe in.

So I turn my back to the ocean blue skyline

Only to see the same picture leaving me

Further and further behind.

I turn again,

It is a glistening blue;

A sparkling surface with a definitive end.

The mirror shatters, then my bones.

Ascension anew, now I begin,

Abandoning the obliterated wreckage

Seen as a sin.

Emptied flesh mixing blood and shards,

The likes of a blooming flower is what I see,

Looking from on high and afar.

Tis a shame no one else can view this painting

Regardless if it is morbid.

I left something beautiful behind,

Even though no one would ever know it.

Berserk - Partial Movie Review & Partial Wet Dream Rejection

Fell asleep during the second act of a horror double feature. I barely stayed awake through the cinematic abomination She Freak, and I don’t mean the creatures were abominations; it was truly an awful, awful movie. Yet, I was most looking forward to the second offering – Berserk, with Joan Crawford.

The movie was billed as a horror, though it was more of a suspense/mystery; and to take it one step further it may even be an accidental American giallo. The story centers on a callous, money-driven travelling circus ringmaster – Monica Rivers - portrayed by the wickedly endearing Joan Crawford.

Slumping profits are forcing Monica to make difficult choices over which acts to keep and which others to let go, but soon grisly accidents begin taking the lives of her performers which sends ticket sales rising, making Monica very happy, but there is still a mystery to be solved. Who is killing her performers?

The movie was filmed brightly, showing off the brilliant bright colors of the circus atmosphere and outfits, much like the tone of a giallo film, and you have the unknown killer roaming the circus grounds murdering victims in sadistic ways. For movie savants there is a special treat as the film also features the late Michael Gough as Albert Durando, Monica’s ex-lover. Michael Gough is most likely best known for portraying Alfred Pennyworth in Tim Burton’s and Joel Schumacher’s four collective Batman films.

From what I did see, the movie as a whole was well done, unfortunately the lazy plot and even lazier writing was its undoing. I dosed off but I wasn’t done seeing Joan Crawford just yet.

In my dream I was experiencing a romantic evening with a red-haired mystery woman, but the body and movements were undoubtedly influenced by Joan Crawford, and my assumption would soon be assured.

After cleaning up downstairs I entered the bedroom. My lover looked to be drifting to sleep as her face was turned away from my sight. I lifted the covers and nestled into bed next to her. I leaned over and planted a row of kisses starting at her shoulder and down her arm. Quickly, she turned around and slapped my face; I swore it was like a two-by-four had snapped against my temple. Her enraged eyes doused her fury all over me and all I could do was cowardly turn away and hope I could sleep without the fear of being stabbed in the back. Even when I awoke, I was turned on my side and I could feel the warmth of her body on my back, but as I turned around, there was only the unoccupied half of my bed.

I got rejected in my own wet dream!

Definitely my kind of woman, though.

Brass Monkey Business

The tuba sounded the note that I wanted but at an uncontrollable octave - far too high. I pulled my head back, noticing I had implanted a baritone’s mouthpiece by mistake. The previous night’s whiskey escapades and pill-popping parade was still in effect.

Regardless, I continued playing, but the octave was far too high. Quite the clueless conundrum, but after I pulled my head back I noticed that there was a baritone’s mouthpiece inserted instead of the regulated tuba kind. Probably because of all the dope and booze I’d downed the night before. 

Was it deja vu or a concussion? Only the voices during my blackouts new for sure.

After settling the tuba inside of its crimson-cushioned case and hurling the baritone’s mouthpiece through the sliding door, consequently shattering the glass and circumstantially splitting the gardeners head open with the mouthpiece, I disrobed. Clad only in my red silk panties and an angry carnivorous hard-on, I descended into my tuba-shaped pool. The fingering keys were diving boards. 

Music had been good to me. As for the unrecognizable trio passed out on the submerged staircase, I'm not sure if they had been good to me, but they were alive. I didn't need another incident like the billiards room and the overdosing Croation princess again.

 All three stragglers were brunettes; two of them were momentary strangers while the one with her chin dipped into her breasts was Aklana – a flutist from the orchestra I was performing with. After my first lap through the pool, I looked at the backs of the other twos heads and recognized them immediately. Joanna – a cellist and Elizebel – a violinist, both from the same orchestra. Or were they hookers I found outside of Miko's tavern?

Whomever and whatever, I hoped they didn’t mind waking up naked, strung out on the homemade cocaine my agent provided. That was how I found them; birthday suits, powdered noses and all. That yayo left quite the impression on one’s senses. I once swore that my heart was beating so fast that I travelled back in time and performed an undiscovered concerto with Antonio Vivaldi entitled Hallowed Dildo in Winter.

Joanna soon awoke while I was dipping my nose into the share of the homemade narcotic I had formed race lines with across her chest. Luckily she was still remarkably thrashed. She smiled and once I crossed the finish line she dipped her head underwater, removed my favorite panties, and performed a tongued rendition of Johannes Brahms Cello Sonata in F along my grumpy cock. Fineldo, the gardener I had accidentally brained and quite possibly lacerated with my incorrect baritone mouthpiece made a gurgling noise which wasn’t a good sign, so I grabbed an empty, over tipped champagne bottle and brained him again. That shut him up.

Unfortunately, it was also time for me to make my way to the stadium to prepare for that night's performance. I hoisted myself onto the pool’s edge with Joanna clinging to my now un-grumpy dick like a catfish to a log of meat hooked to a fishing reel.

My fishing enthusiastic friends were right; you have got to get them early when they’re hungry.

I dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, threw on some sneakers and my favorite black trench coat all the while searching for my favorite tuba mouthpiece, which I could not locate. I kept a spare in one of the stadium’s lockers for such an occasion, so I ceased probing for my favorite one, but the mystery of its location left me uneasy, but a bump of home-cocaine and a mouth-rinsing swig of Gentleman Jack perked me right up. I told the ladies to see themselves out and call an ambulance for Fineldo, saluted my photograph of me and Vivaldi holding a dildo shaped like a Christmas tree, and headed for the bus stop.

The ride was pleasant, mostly because I was numb from the last bump of Snow White. I stood so as not to pass out and miss my stop like I had two days ago after the night the conductor invited me to his home for a dinner party/transvestite modeling show, which was quite impressive, and trannies always seem to have the best drugs.

I was dropped three blocks from the stadium. At the second crosswalk I dug my hands into my coat pockets. In my right one I felt something metallic. It was my favorite tuba mouthpiece. I was elated, then I sniffed it – I always sniff it when I first hold it – don’t know why. It smelled like Joanna’s mouth, which was perplexing but not uncommon. I’m just wondering how the hell it wound up in my coat pocket.

Smart Zombie Zumba

The zombies had evolved.

Fucking brilliant; they occupied the intelligence of whatever learning tissue existed on them from time of death to last slithery drop or crackling erosion.

We were individually strung with our arms folded across our chests, like straight jackets, hooked to a walking post across our backs. There was a three-piece zombie sentry carrying the bastard leading us to what I could have sworn was a soda machine, but towered with it was a blender quite capable of devouring a fully grown human being, with room for pets.

The fleshy outcomes drizzled, curved downward into the machine where it filled the bowl of the Smart Zombies’ queen. When filled, the bowl is hoisted onto Smart Zombie Drones’ shoulders, and the bowl is handed to Smart Zombie Queen so she might feed as heartily or lightly as she hoped. She still wanted to have a figure….yuh know...Something manageable.

Could always give Smart Zombie Zumba another try.

Double Doors

...the continuation of Chasing Oddities

The double doors guarded secrecy like dust settled on old things. There they were, like I had always seen them only with a slightly important difference, now one of them was slightly ajar. The darkness behind it may as well have been a waving finger, inviting me into the unknown. I knew the big guy was still after me but once the silent siren of the new darkness gestured me towards the forbidden room, I forgot about the chainsaw-wielding psychopath that could not have been more than one-hundred yards behind me when I first entered the house.

I pushed the door open, away from the beckoning emptiness and waited for the creaking to spoil my elusiveness, but the silence reflected the seriousness of this part of my trial, and being the greatest warrior meant honing the patience that came before that ever elusive moment of spiritual discovery, and I was always taught to stand up to fears – all kinds of fears – and horrors.

The room was carpeted gray; the whole identity of these quarters was completely opposite in tone to the ransacked, floor peeled kitchen area before it. There were chairs and plastic fern trees decorating two corners of the area. It was a polite waiting room made eerie only by the gloomy shade and the wicked chamber that partially illuminated my side of the window but was brightly lit on the other side.

There were no stairs, no doors, and no other windows that I could see, only a grungy tiled wall. In fact the whole enclosure resembled an Olympic sized, ill-kept swimming pool without any routes for escape. However, I had to press myself against the glass to see exactly where the water was, and it was well below the floor level of the house, embedded tightly into the earth, and at the bottom of this devious pool were humanoids – what exactly I could not tell. At first glance they looked like normal, full-grown humans curled up into fetal positions except instead of being spread out into single vials they were all gathered and grown in this one monstrous pool.

And then one of them moved their head.