“The Green Man”


 By around dusk most of the space-junkies and mobsters had all backed away from Filio’s Diner, gone back to their filthy hammocks and pill-whores on the lower decks of Sector 4 just as soon as Mr. Mosley’s face lost its usual air of drunken, childish patience and irons were swiftly drawn, cold cocked, and sweaty from hands ready and wanting for blood.

 Fairy faggots. All of them, Mosley thought. Alien scum.

 Mosley shot all three of em’ right in the face, right then, just for wasting his time, just for not being fucking human. Bloody rivers now carried their card game downstream and off the table’s edge onto the tiled floor. Red blood. Funny.

  Mosley turned his Stetson and rolled his old-fashioned guns absently; the old barroom’s creaks giving away his foes position as good as any sonar.

 Movement behind a metallic crate of Mod.47 mechanical vaginas…

 Mosley spun, fanned a few shots for cover, then dove and chased the “Alien Scum” out the backdoor and out into the open dusty street, where Mosley gunned him down with a shot to what looked like his kneecap.

 The tough green bastard just rolled back and with the burst from a concealed jetpack, sprang forward on his bad leg like nothing had even happed. The Green Man drew on Mosley, midair, blasting away with a sawed-off Triton SpreadShot ripped from his overcoat.

 Mosley’s pistols were already on their target.

 And firing.

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“Dog Bites Soul”

“Dog Bites Soul”

By Garrett Cook and Ash Lomen


 My gun, a beaten old military issue with my father’s blood crusted like old paint on the butt, jammed at the very same second I realized shooting the poor old girl would destroy me, but when I pulled that trigger, I saw in her big brown eyes that the gesture was enough to inflict upon her that most terrible quietus, a broken heart. Now both awkward as sombreros on the subway, the dog and I locked eyes in a silence so deep that the once promised gunfire would have provided us nothing but respite, and as she let out her final, chokeing, admonishing bark, I realized that the cunt of the Earth bore me into this world for one reason and one reason only. Sensing the newfound danger instinctually, she jumped to life like a well fed Jukebox on a Saturday night in 1969.

 Nothingness faded to form so quickly that I was afraid to love her again…

 “One shot left, Riley!” the man inside my head that is not me.

 My gun, a beaten old military issue with my father’s blood crusted like old paint on the butt, unjammed at the very same second that I realized that shooting the old girl would redeem me. “One shot left, Riley” I said to myself this time.. and fired… and the ensuing explosion of gunpowder might as well have been in my own chest, for as the 45. blew her heart apart, mine exploded too.

…And in spite of myself, I came, ejaculating black gunpowder butterflies that shattered windows and put holes in the walls. The odd shafts sunlight I created that pierced the darkness of our seclusion seemed to have a strange off-limeskin tint to them, I pulled back a rag-curtain and saw that the sky had gone gatorgreen. I was excited but frightened, I had marked myself to the denizens of the greenlit outside world as one whose lifebringing fluids were agents of death. Again she jumped to life like a well fed jukebox, this time perhaps playing something relatively hip but subversively dark from the early 90’s alt. metal scene; my dog was not dead and the world had turned the color of my soul.  

 This world is far too beautiful a place for a man to carry doubt in his heart. She knew that too, knew it so well that she chewed my burnt husk of a heart out, and as I fought back; our bodily fluids doing a strange ariel tango, my dog and I making sure to avoid eye contact the whole time we preformed this dance of bloodred-death in a gatorgreen world… Christmas-death colors… the colors of a rose… and as I fought back, I knew I was dying…

 The last thing I thought was how I lamented reading Watchers and deciding my life was empty with no dog in it, I kept that with me as my soul drifted and I climbed the mad mountain that led into Heaven, I kept that with me and rejoiced, for Heaven to me was punching Dean Koontz in the throat.

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“Fire Worship And Worse”

“Perhaps all pleasure is only relief.”
~ William S. Burroughs


The sun curls up lazy in the red sky, and I almost stay inside to write. Still, injustice really boils the blood, and gets the old ink flowing. A swarm of thoughts plays through my braincogs like complex jazz and I get up, throw on my fedora, and hit the streets

I wake up in a warehouse, cut from head to toe. Chained to a metal chair and being glared at by a large Russian gentleman with one eye, two teeth, and arms like a Kraken. He reminds me of my childhood and long afternoons with my mother

Woody Guthrie plays on ratty speakers. Jenny holds both her ankles XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Edward sodomizing me at the time. I was only eleven, so even if I did blackmail the two of them into this… how could I really be blamed for it…

I sit with Jenny atop an overpass passing a poorly rolled joint back and forth as we watch insects die all around us. She is twenty-four, I am twenty-eight, and we have been married for six wonderful years. Her strawberry hair still makes me want to cry but I also have wanted to kill her from the first moment we met.

As I struggle against my restraints. Jenny and Edward walk in hand and hand behind the hulking Russian.

When I am seven, I find a dead sparrow on my driveway. I am happy for it. This is all I can remember.

“The most merciful thing in the world I think is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents…”
~ H. P. Lovecraft



For Joyce Carol Oates

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“Before Everything Became Nothing”


your tears

are holy water

your blood

my Christian wine

broken bones are


and when I choke you

the flesh of your face

is the color

of the sky

once upon a time

in our hometown

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“Blood Was The New Black, That Was Yesterday”


tones of sharp



laced with betrayal

this exile

 is self imposed

and if I wanted

I would chew

 the barrel

off the gun

so pleasantly

fixed on my skull

and your throat would be open

long before your mouth…

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“High School Regicide: A First Cut”


Johnny Boy The Wolf


You don’t have to enjoy watching while Gerald masturbates onto his first cousin, or Nadine carefully chokes herself with an antique bonnet, or Carter craps into a urn that he stores under a kitchen sink. You just have to pretend. You have to sit back, sniff the cinnamon stick that you keep hidden in your glove.”

I close the book.

What the hell am I doing, the year is 2010 and that groovy fucker won’t even be relevant for at least another twenty years.

This is all so pointless.

I’m no vegan, I eat flesh, and I damn well like it when the juices are so red they deepen to the hue of my wine.

I put away the book written by a better man and turn on the computer. I navigate in seconds to a thumb-porno site I have been using for years. I click on a box.

I don’t have to enjoy watching the three men jerking off on the crying meth-head’s face. I don’t have to enjoy watching the babysitter fuck the family dog while some wiley clown holds a razor to her throat. I don’t have to enjoy seeing someone who looks like someone I once loved, punched in the stomach as she’s forced to stare blankly with tearless eyes, now long dry, into the camera (and how does he manage to keep it from shaking like that).

I don’t have to enjoy this.

But I do.


The little wooden box is full of metal knives and good weed that smells like a Hassidic Jew’s armpits. It will last for weeks, hopefully longer. The important thing is that I finish the job before it does. A rusty 38. sits on top of the little wooden box. I have three bullets.


I’ve been noticing some of the whores in the “no gag reflex section” of the porno bin have Nine Inch Nails tattoos scratched across their emaciated, pockmarked bodies. I remember how many of the girls in my high-school used to paint “NIN” in big print whiteout letters all over their black book bags. The thought makes me smile.

God that band went to hell.


I know you. I know every little nasty thing you think. I can smell through the veneer of civility to the wide eyed sheep that shits itself inside your brain, wishing that it were a wolf.

I know this because I am a wolf.

You are a sheep because you want to sleep in your bed and go to work and kiss your wife. I am a wolf because I am happy alone and itching.

Your complacency has made you slow, weekend your resolve.It has been years since you tasted the blood of a virgin.And you miss it.

Don’t lie.

I know you.


I drive out of state on Monday to meet my drug dealer, I think of my rusty .38 even as I look over his attractive wife who has a snarling oriental dragon on her droopy left tit. She wears a tank top three sizes too small.

I get a hard on looking at her love handles.


When I get home only one bullet remains in my revolver’s chamber.

Did I take it with me?

I can smell gunpowder, cum, and cinnamon… and I know suddenly that I am alive for the very first time in my life.


For Jeremy C. Shipp

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