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SLUGDGE

I like to work to music. Often this shows up in my nonsense; anyone who has read DAMNATION 101 knows there is a fallen angel in it called Dro)))ne, named as a tribute to a band I was listening to at the time called Sun O))). Lately I’ve been listening to SLUGDGE, and a certain Mexican-snot-slug/chaos-magick-familiar in my forthcoming Xmas story will be named in their honour. The album cover below links through to their Bandcamp page. Bloody good stuff.

SLugdge

 

 

 

 

 

 

Toilet Seat for a Halo

I’ve always thought the brain resembled intestines crammed into our skulls. If it was that would explain the contents of most people’s minds…
I’ve just finished the first draft of a novella called SHIT STAIN HALO. It’s sort of a sister story to DAMNATION 101; I’m torn over calling it SALVATION 666, but I love the title it has now. In 101 everyone ends up in Hell; in HALO we all go to Paradise, including serial killers like the main character, who becomes a superstar in the sport that keeps the bored masses of the afterlife docile. A sport that involves killing the rival team and defecating on them. It’s violent and disgusting and blasphemous… so pretty much business as normal for my imagination’s digestive tract.

God’s Abortions: From Such Little Seeds, Monstrous Things May Grow…

Quite often I find I write something and think that I’m done, onto the next atrocity… but then I find my mind coming back to it, and realize that there is much more to tell. They are seeds, planted in the soil of the subconscious, and sometimes they blossom into bizarre new growths. That happened with the following flash piece, originally written for a project that never came to fruition, and eventually published in FATES WORSE THAN LIFE. This is where my new book, THE WHOREHOUSE THAT JACK BUILT, first started life. Enjoy.

GOD’S ABORTIONS

Editor’s Note: The Summa Izbu by Marshall McGregor (1939, Poissons Chien L’édition) is now, of course, a legendary book in the occult sciences.

Both the demonology and its writer represent an almost unique occurrence in the history of the subject matter in that neither concerned themselves with the materialistic whereas nearly every other grimoire details the method of summoning beings for their abilities to bestow vast wealth upon the conjuror, the Summa Izbu purely concerns itself with calling up creatures for the purposes of carnal relations, with noxious detail as to the writers own experiences of having sex with that which he called. At least, this is what is claimed by its author, Marshall McGregor (1856-?), an occultist and self-proclaimed “alchemist of flesh”.

The name of the text is a minor mystery in itself. It is taken directly from a Babylonian teratological divinatory text; that is, predicting the future by examining monstrous and abnormal births.

Concerning Eunuchorns

They are a species of mutilated centaurs, used as guards of the harem. Hence the mutilation, obviously; gelding is the only effective means of preventing them rendering the kept whores useless for His service.

The favourite joke during a round of castrations is that a stable hands pay may be low, but the tips are huge.

The Jigwhore

Its mouth was in the palm of its left hand, its anus in the right. Its buttocks were breasts and its snout thrust from between its thighs; its cunt took up the whole face. The eyes were situated behind its knees, and it slept by kneeling down.

What was it like? In each hand it was like sliding in and out of meat cylinders lined with swallowing worms -its veins- and the plucked strings of lutes -the tendons- but with that third hole in its face… I fucked its brains out.

Onanimago, A Minor Demon

At first I thought the creature was human, a female, though an exaggerated member of the gender… her breasts grotesque not only in size -huge and round as its pregnant belly- but in how they were mutilated; was it her hand or another that had taken a razor to them, the blade slicing back and forth, cross hatching bloody lipped diamonds across the skin? Then I saw my mistake as –not scars- those organs opened, opened like pine cones will, wet petals unsticking with sounds like kisses. From between, pale tubers curled out, uncertain in the harsh light like the eye stalks of snails.

As more detail became apparent I saw that its features were on the wings of butterflies that flocked quivering on the carnage of its head. Wings folded, it winked. Often they would flutter down between its thighs. Its sex was the organs of a flower; lips or nose would creep about the fleshy horns, sipping and sniffing, before drunkenly flitting back to the face, to sit there glistening. Self fellatio.

I said to the demon, “I wish I could do that.”

“Say please and I’ll let you,” it whispered.

The Sad Tale Of The Siamese Triplets

From time to time is has amused me to have each of those I call tell me their stories, generally when I am tired and sore. So I asked this one to relate, a little.

Stoicism was a virtue inherited from mothers side; the boys took after their father. It was inevitable that two would commit suicide, and seeing as though they were joined at the forehead, this seriously hampered the survivor’s efforts towards matrimony.

She had not the prettiest antlers.

THE WHOREHOUSE THAT JACK BUILT

Whorehouse

It was a whorehouse, but not one open to just anyone. To get there you had to be dying or insane. The services offered were all offered for the same price, which was everything you had. There were paths there that only those who had crossed the border into the Undiscovered Country could find, if they knew the landmarks to follow, the signs to watch for. Clem followed and watched and two days ago his mule had done died of exhaustion and it was just him and Lady keepin’ on who knew how and finally they came to a dead town with no name at twilight and a whorehouse with a sign above the door that Clem could not read: A SOILED DOVE IN A CAGE PUTS ALL HEAVEN IN A RAGE A whorehouse run by demons. A whorehouse that offered the greatest pleasures a man could ever want… in exchange for everything he had. Am I gonna do this? Am I really gonna… The cancer in his belly twisted spikes through his impacted bowels and in front of him lay Lady, a sacrifice. And Clem pushed that door open and stepped across the threshold.

Available now from MorbidbookS (read the first chapter there) my bizarro-porno Weird Western. You’ve never seen blasphemy like this…

Happy St. Patrick’s Day

A 100 word long piece of flash fiction. Pogue mahone.

The despair of that ancient and proud indigenous race fell on deaf ears until that grey March morning in New York City. Is it any wonder, after seeing the image of his people made a grotesque caricature for the purposes of tourism, of seeing their culture and their traditions sold out, made foolish and twee for the sake of souvenirs and gaudy trinkets –“the shilling of the shillelagh,” as one columnist later wrote- that the leprechaun sat down cross legged in front of the St Patrick’s Day parade, emptied a bottle of poteen over his head, and struck a match?

Some Good Advice

burn-down-the-house-front-300dpi

A cat’s glistening wound houses something monstrous. A brother and sister are haunted by the ashes of their uncle. A hipster falls prey to a murderous sorcerer. Three sexless, immoral beings climb out of a woman’s head. These are the tales of Burn Down The House And Everyone In It, a collection of fiction ranging from the comically absurd to the deeply disturbing.

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR BURN DOWN THE HOUSE AND EVERYONE IN IT

“Owen’s writing is a masterful mix of sly humor and absolute terror. The stories presented here could easily be found in a Stephen King/George Romero collaboration.”
– William Pauley III, author of Hearers of the Constant Hum, The Brothers Crunk, and The Doom Magnetic Trilogy

“Horror is a city, and the Absurd is one of its neighborhoods. Zachary T. Owen just moved in and he’s inviting you around to the house warming, to meet the Junk Man, Little Danny, Ruffles, the Limb King, all three of the Dandies… the whole damn family! You should accept his invite. Fuck knows what’ll happen to you if you don’t.”
-Kevin Sweeney, author of Damnation 101, Exeunt Alice, and co-author of the Sideshow P.I. series

A Blasphemous Tome (If You’re A Cthulhu Mythos Purist)

“The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.”
The Call of the Cthulhu, H.P. Lovecraft, 1926

“Every science is a mutilated octopus. If its tentacles were not clipped to stumps, it would feel its way into disturbing contacts.”
Wild Talents, Charles Fort, 1932

We know Lovecraft had read Fort, but did Fort read Lovecraft? If not it must be one of those coincidences that Fort himself liked to collect. I was thinking about this after posting about the mythos inspired McHumans by Kevin Strange (well, ranting about Spongebob under the guise of posting about McHumans.) And thinking this made me realise I haven’t tried shilling my own nonsense on here for a good few hours, so…

choose

Post-postmodern tales of the Cthulhu Mythos for those who obsessively devour every new spin on the old tropes, CHOOSE YOUR OWN DAMNATION is an affectionate deconstruction of the pseudo-pantheon of hideous ancient alien blasphemies and the endless obsessive cataloging of same by the fandom! IA! GOOGLY MOOGLY!

Here’s what my old mucker Mike Reeves had to say:

“That book of yours (Choose Your Own Damnation) is one of the funniest things I’ve read in years. It’s like Robert Rankin and HP Lovecraft fighting in a bear pit whilst debauched serial killers circle jerk into the arena. It’s also a very clever way of stitching together otherwise unrelated little sketches of surreality. The line that goes something like ‘John Thomas was slightly relieved that part of his testicles were outside of space-time’ made me do a triple-take before corpsing. The humour makes the purely repulsive stuff stand out more too.”

The cover is a joke for long term Mythos nuts too, and a click on it will take you through to the Amazon page.

The Slithery Mickey Dee

McHumans

After Cthulhu awakens and destroys civilization as we know it, humans are used as slaves and food by their new slimy, submerged masters. One such young man, Ricky, works at an undersea fast food joint where he’s forced to kill and cook other humans for the Deep Ones to eat. But he has a plan. His restaurant caters to the Big Man himself, and if Ricky’s plan works, he could pull off the unthinkable: He could actually Kill Cthulhu.

McHumans is probably my favourite of Kevin Strange’s work. It starts off reading like someone strained the Cthulhu mythos through Spongebob Squarepants, but then becomes a bizarro action romp which is great fun. I’m highlighting it here because it’s a great read and I highly recommend it, but it also serves as an excuse to segue into a rant I have about a certain cartoon show…

I grew up in the 80s. The cartoons I grew up with were little more than long adverts with twee moral lessons tagged on the end -these always accompanied by a terrible joke which the animated cast found inexplicably hysterical- but mainly they were about pushing “product” on impressionable minds. Buy the toys, the lunch box, the bed spread, and a metric ton of other poorly made shit with your hero’s inanely grinning faces plastered all over it. But you know what? I’ll take that form of brainwashing over the kind exhibited in Spongebob Squarepants. The show is basically indoctrinating an entire generation into accepting their lot as wage slaves.

Consider.

Spongebob works in a fast food restaurant (representing the entirety of the service industry) and he is deliriously happy about it; every morning he gets up ready and eager to get to his dead-end job behind a grease trap, a position of which he is psychotically proud and devoted. His place of employment is the starting point for all kinds of hilarious hi-jinks and whacky adventures, a McWonderland of fun, gee kids bet you can’t wait to get out of boring school so that you can enter the workforce and start having a high old time? His boss, Mr Crabs, pays him bugger all, but that is constantly shown to be besides the point, because Spongebob loves his job so much (and he somehow not only manages to own his own house on this threadbare salary, but also feeds pet food to his pet rather than having to eat it himself or default on his electricity bill that month.)

Not convinced that this is all priming the target demographic for a life of drudgery with a BIG SHIT-EATING SMILE?

Next consider the character of Squidward, Spongebob’s neighbour and fellow burger-flipper, a character constantly shown to hate his job, resent his co-workers, and who dares to dream of something better, perhaps a life in the arts. He plays a musical instrument and paints, and is often shown to yearn for “fancy” things, such as food which hasn’t been deep fried, or even respect. What happens to Squidward? He is the butt of every joke, a figure of fun, ridiculed and subjected to slapstick violence… almost like he’s being punished for not getting with the program.

The message is neon bright. Love your life of slavery and never dream. Be a colourful, fun-loving, braindead Spongebob, not a dour, dismal, aspirational Squidward.

It’s not like children’s entertainment hasn’t been used before to condition and program developing minds, but Jesus H. Aslan, SUBTLETY MUCH?

(And yes, I am aware of the irony in me pointing out other’s lack of subtlety, what with the OTT nonsense I’ve published over the years.)

P.S.

Give McHumans a whirl, it really is an absolute hoot.