From the author of DAMNATION 101 and THE WHOREHOUSE THAT JACK BUILT COMES a bizarro novel about insane evolution, in four parts. Victorian robots wager on death-matches between mutant children… on the island of super villain Dr Tomorrow, furry morons are put on trial for their lives… glory holes are not the only source of bathroom love… and in the future, monsters wage holy war over the last resource on Earth; frozen celebrities.

Click that cover to buy your copy.



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.








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.


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.



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?