DOA III Page 7

  The venerable horror author H.P. Lovecraft hated and/or was terrified by everyone remotely different from himself. Which pretty much meant everyone who ever lived. It started with what he perceived as the mud-based races, dialed down to the sexes, and wound up with everyone who was just not him. And then past that. Bottom line: that guy was scared of everyone, including himself.

  Was he an incredibly important author, who substantially influenced the field of weird fiction forever? Absolutely. Was he an incredibly flawed individual, spilling his deranged mania out on the page? Without a doubt.

  The one thing I can safely say about H.P. Lovecraft is that if he hadn’t been so utterly weird and fucked-up, our lives would be substantially poorer for it.

  You can complain all you want, and rightfully so.

  But as for me, I’m just grateful for that toxic lemonade. Because this is how we learn.

  Y IS FOR YOUR PICTURE HERE

  Yolanda was tired of hurting herself. She’d cut and cut a trillion times. There were very few nerve endings left. How much pain could a person endure? The black trap door beneath her had yet to drop. The cesspool sweetness of the ‘80s Times Square was long gone.

  Now it was all Disney bombast, a neon agreement that we all just step in line, accept the corporate smiley-face they’d pasted upon us. Be the stamped-out, pre-fab people they wanted us to be, going ooooh and ahhhh at every flickering firework designed to realign our brains. There was a tourist photo booth near the corner of 47th and Broadway. Yolanda dragged her sixty-seven-year-old still-here carcass into it, passing the endless parade of gawking tourists and savvy street-dwellers. Slipping her last quarters in.

  The second the camera clicked, she began to tear her own face off, one broken-nailed shred at a time. Her naked red skull the truest selfie she would ever take. Her screams, the purest sounds.

  They all said she was crazy. And they were right.

  But fuck if she didn’t get her point across.

  Z IS FOR ZENITH AND APEX

  There is no bottom. And there is no top. That’s the thing we have to wrestle with eternally. No matter how hard you fall, there is always a deeper darkness below.

  But if that is true, there is also no end to the height and the light that a soul can aspire to. Up goes up forever, too.

  A little perspective is a wonderful thing.

  And that, my friend, is what splatterpunk means to me.

  John Skipp is a Rondo Award-winning filmmaker (Tales of Halloween), Stoker Award-winning anthologist (Demons, Mondo Zombie), and New York Times bestselling author (The Light at the End, The Scream) whose books have sold millions of copies in a dozen languages worldwide. His first anthology, Book of The Dead, laid the foundation in 1989 for modern zombie literature. He's also editor-in-chief of Fungasm Press, championing genre- melting authors like Laura Lee Bahr, Violet LeVoit, Autumn Christian, Danger Slater, Cody Goodfellow, and Devora Gray. From splatterpunk founding father to bizarro elder statesman, Skipp has influenced a generation of horror and counterculture artists around the world. His latest book is The Art of Horrible People.

  TAKEAWAY NIGHT by T.M. McLean

  T.M. MCLEAN

  Every Friday night is takeaway night for me. I head into town, past the discount frozen food place, and grab myself a little something to enjoy later. I stop off for curry too.

  Last week was the best, man, it really was. You should’ve seen her: short skirt, tight arse, the hottest one I’ve seen for ages. Anyway, I decided to strike up a conversation. Y’know, put the moves on her. She wasn’t interested, though. She just kept babbling about how she was lost and asking if I knew where she was and where the nearest bus stop was. I’m not much for conversation, so I just punched her in the face really hard. She didn’t fall over right away and I had to give her a couple more smacks. Then I dragged her to the car. It’s dark out there, y’know, so no one ever sees anything. I bundled her into the back seat and tied her up nice, stuffed a wad of gauze into her gob, and headed for the curry place.

  The guy there knows me pretty well and he served me my usual: chicken tikka korai, garlic pilau rice, keema naan, popadoms and some chips. I let him keep the change and went back to the car. My new friend was snoozing nicely in the back, but unfortunately, she had the makings of a decent black eye. She was hot enough for it not to ruin her completely, though.

  I got her home and that’s when the fun really started. Well, not right away. It seemed I’d gotten a little too carried away and she was out cold for a while. Made it easier for me to strip her and tie her to one of the dining chairs, though. It can be a right pain in the arse to fight someone into a chair, know what I mean? Of course you do, what the hell am I thinking? Forget I asked.

  She came to and did the usual freaking out bit. I don’t like that part, so I just started sharing out the curry and rice and put the naan bread and popadoms onto separate plates. By the time everything was dished out, she’d calmed a bit, and I removed the bandage that was holding the gauze in her mouth. She didn’t reward my generosity with words.

  She spat on me; got me right in the face. “What the hell was that for?” I asked her.

  She made a weird noise and thrashed her head about. When she started screaming I wasn’t even sure that the sounds she was making were words, but after a while I realized she was screeching for help. That made me laugh. These old houses have thick walls, you know? I mean, I can do anything in here and no one would ever know about it. Anyway, I let her scream herself hoarse and started eating the chips, watching her titties jiggle. “You hungry?” I asked and pushed her plate a little closer to her.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” she said. Her little scream-a-thon had left her looking a little flustered; snot was running from her nose and covered her lips. The way it stretched when she spoke was interesting.

  “Hungry?” I asked again.

  That’s when she started crying. That proper kind of cry, the kind they do when they know they’ve lost. She progressed to that stage way quicker than they normally do. “Please let me go. Please. I’ll do whatever you want, please!” Just like in the movies, no shit.

  I shushed her and gestured for her to open her mouth. She did, so I scooped up a good forkful of curry. The stupid cow spat again before I got it into her gob. The spit didn’t get anywhere near me that time. Instead it landed harmlessly on the table, taking a little of the filmy snot with it.

  “Come on now, everyone has to eat. It’s good, trust me.” I held the fork under my nose to smell it. That scent was like heaven. Seriously, I love it.

  Getting her to open her mouth was pretty hard, but once I kicked her in the chest and knocked the wind out of her it became a lot easier. Oh, I let her recover a little before I jammed the fork in. I’m not an animal—I didn’t want her to choke. It must have been a bit spicier than the food she’s used to because tears were streaming uncontrollably the whole time she was eating. Either that or she was crying about the black eye, being tied up and force fed.

  She ate her entire half and I ate mine. Delicious. It was one of the best meals I’d had in a while and I decided I’d have to thank the curry guy next time I went.

  We sat and enjoyed the silence for a while when we were done. I grabbed myself a beer and offered her some water. I even gave her an extra-long straw so she could drink it easily—her hands were firmly tied to the chair.

  After that it was a bit of a waiting game. I warned her not to make any annoying sounds, otherwise she’d get the gauze treatment again. She was quiet, just sobbed a few times. Nothing too distracting, though, and I managed to watch a few episodes of Friends while we waited. I used to love that show when I was a teenager and I still watch it whenever I happen across it. Actually, now that I think about it, seems like it’s on telly all the time. My guest was watching it too, although I don’t think she was old enough to have appreciated the show its first time around. Right after the third episode I felt my belly start to rumble.

  This is where it ge
ts really interesting.

  Spicy curry works its way through your system pretty quickly. Of course I spiked both of our dishes with a healthy dose of laxatives, so it was even faster that night. My new friend needed to go too. I could see it in her eyes.

  “I don’t know about you, but I need a shit,” I told her.

  No response.

  I walked over to her seat, bent down so that my head was near her crotch, and sniffed. Sure enough, she’d let one go. She hadn’t shit herself, not then, but she’d definitely farted. It was amazing: all those spices mingling with her turds. Man, that stuff had been inside her. The aroma filtered through her before it filled my lungs. I had to adjust myself in my pants then; just the thought was getting to me, know what I mean?

  Leaning in closer to her, I placed my head against her belly, enjoying the gurgling sounds. Well, I was enjoying them until she started whimpering. I shoved the wad back into her mouth and told her to keep quiet, which she did.

  “I don’t know about you,” I said to her, “but I’m about ready to blow.” I gave her my best smile and stepped around behind her seat. I had to make room, you see, so I pulled the chair away from the table. Then I got undressed.

  She couldn’t see me at first, because I was behind her of course, but when I stepped round and she caught sight of my tool, she started to shake rather violently and the crying intensified again. My tool stiffened even more and then I really couldn’t hold back any longer. I positioned myself between her and the table, my back to the girl. I bent forward and pushed.

  It didn’t take much effort to get it going. There was a solid piece blocking the exit but that popped like a cork and the rest sprayed like champagne at a wedding. A lot came out, the spices stinging my delighted and twitching sphincter as the garlicky goodness bubbled and squirted all over her. The smell filled the room and I took in one deep lungful after another.

  Unfortunately for my guest she didn’t seem all that impressed. I looked back just in time to see her gag on the gauze in her mouth. I watched her struggle; her spasms were fascinating. Vomit sprayed from her nose and a slight trickle managed to escape the corners of her mouth. Her left eye was squeezed shut as she tried to swallow the remains of the korai back down. The right eye was shut too, but because of the swelling rather than her situation. It was a beautiful image and as I watched her I decided to join an art class so I could paint her in all her glory. But that would have to wait.

  My dick was hard beyond belief by now. Her puke and shit-covered body were just too much for me. I put one hand on her shoulder and started tugging myself with the other. “Shit!” I screamed at her. I knew she must be ready—no way could she resist the smell.

  “Shit,” I commanded again. I was tugging furiously by this time, almost ready to explode all over again. “SHIIIIIIIIT!”

  And then she did.

  The chair didn’t have any kind of cushion on it. It was just bare wood against her bare arse. So when the shit came out it was under a lot of pressure. The gauze muffled her scream a bit, but it was still glorious. The spicy sauce squirted and sprayed, it squelched and flew. My hand was pumping, breath deep and steady. Long, slow inhalations through the nose followed by savouring sighs through the mouth. Just as her shitgasm reached its zenith, I juiced her up good. My semen splattered on her face and tits, oozing down to mingle with the liquid shit I had sprayed on her earlier. When the last ecstatic twitch was over and my dick began to rest again, I gave her an embrace and told her that I loved her. She was crying but rewarded my devotion with a final fart that I sniffed up with relish.

  Then I killed her with a knife from the kitchen.

  I don’t take pleasure in killing, but I had no further use for her by that point.

  It’s weird, y’know? That I’m telling you this, I mean. I’ve never told anyone about what I do before…

  So, anyway, I’m going to take the gauze out now and we’re going to enjoy a nice little meal together, okay? Okay.

  I have a feeling you’re going to enjoy this. Don’t you just love takeaway night?

  T.M. McLean’s fiction has appeared in a number of anthologies, including The Black Hand Supremacy, Terror Tree’s Pun Book of Horror Stories, Fear’s Accomplice, Terror at the Beach, Tales from the Perseus Arm Vol. 2, and Killer Bees from Outer Space, as well as on several websites. His work is often on the fringes of extreme horror with an occasional dash of science fiction. Not content with just writing stories, he is also equally (un)known as an anthology editor, having produced the popular Fear’s Accomplice series (NoodleDoodle Publications) and Zombies Galore (KnightWatch Press). T.M. McLean and his wife live in Hong Kong, where inspiration is never too far away.

  BURNT by Luciano Marano

  LUCIANO MARANO

  Fire gets all the glory, but the real action happens beneath the flames. It’s a secret spectacle. The blaze itself is just a side effect of matter changing form, a simple chemical reaction. Something transforming into something new. The change is what’s important. Combustion is the product of just the right amount of oxygen, heat, and fuel. Fuel being something that will burn. Wood. Cloth. Flesh. Actually, flesh alone isn’t flammable enough to begin a conflagration. You have to start with something else first. An ignitor, the professionals call it. The pretty flames we love—the mood lighting of many a romantic dinner, fluffy carpet fuck fest and cozy campfire—are just the calling card of transmutation.

  Watch wood change as it burns. You will see it char and then whiten as the flame advances across it like a shiny wave, a brilliant blanket. That’s a sexy dance. It’s hard not to love a spectacle like that. But it’s all style, no substance.

  Fire isn’t even necessary to burn something at all. Hot water will affect skin in much the same way. So will steam, radiation, and even long enough exposure to sunlight. That’s why they call it a sun burn. Flesh burnt badly enough will literally die while still attached, a patch of blight on an otherwise healthy organ, and become like sun-bleached leather, waxy to the touch. Or it might harden into coal-black scales, otherworldly armor.

  Watch. The skin reddens, then blisters. Fatty bubbles begin to appear like soap on the surface of still water. Small at first. Then they grow. They swell, balloon up, ready to bloom like the bulbs of some strange fleshy flower, waiting to burst open in a shocking display of new life. When they do, the freshly revealed skin is the glistening newborn result of that flickering, feverish passion.

  Watch the pretty skin. See it change. It will whiten, melt and pool, reassemble into a great and terrible new visage. Striking. Compelling. A human recreated, not in the image of a kindly God, but by the design of heat. Burn wards are Satan’s art gallery. The figure in each bed a grotesque new rendition of an alien vision for the human form, an interpretation of the old flesh. Beauty reimagined. Not beholden to the constraints of symmetry, or even function, the new flesh splits through the old, rending violently through to breathe and touch, to be touched, in a dizzying display of a striking new aesthetic.

  Losing her face was the best thing that ever happened to Vicki’s mother.

  Every year, deep fryer accidents are responsible for about five deaths in America. Catherine was almost one of them, but she lived. They didn’t think she would and, at first, she wished that she hadn’t. Recovery was slow and arduous, indescribably painful. But the best experts in the country were consulted, all of them eager to attach their name to such a sensational case study, and they were able to save one of her eyes, replace her lips—sufficient enough for her to speak—also reconstruct enough of her ears so that she could eventually wear large stylish sunglasses.

  The scar tissue, smooth and leathery, enveloped her head like the hood of a wetsuit. Thick crimson tentacles snaked down from her neck in both the front, curving sensuously between her breasts, and also in back, like the seeking appendages of a parasite. The division between the new burned area and the old pale skin was a rough barrier of scale, like the hide of a primordial beast, surrounded by a tender, pink
ish outline.

  Catherine took to wearing scarves and hats, wigs sometimes, but she loved masks most of all. She had an impressive collection by the time Vicki’s father left. He couldn’t look at his wife anymore. He couldn’t stand the thought of touching her. It was almost funny. Before the accident he never cared if she was in the mood or not. When he wanted her affection, he took it. She eventually learned not to struggle.

  Now Catherine wanted it all the time. She was ready, positively in heat. She strutted around the house in her wigs, her masks, and not much else most of the time. In a carnival disguise or a domino mask and scarf, lace panties peeking out from under a sheer teddy or riding low beneath a bustier, she moaned and writhed yet to no avail. What’s the saying? She couldn’t get laid in prison with a handful of pardons.

  Dad hadn’t been around much before the accident, so it wasn’t a hard adjustment for the kids when he split. Vicki’s older brother Gregory was upset at first, but even he got over it soon enough. Besides, there were plenty of men at the house after that. There were other things for him to be upset about too.

  Delivery men were easy. So was the plumber, the handyman and the paper boy. And when Catherine couldn’t think up a job to bring a new man over, there was always the internet. The lawsuit settlement with the deep fryer manufacturer paid the doctor’s bills and left Catherine with plenty of cash and plenty of time at home to be available for entertaining. Though it hadn’t been true for Dad, most men will overlook almost anything in the face of a guaranteed score. If some lonely slut wanted to wear a mask, or a wig and maybe do it only from behind, what did they care? They got off just the same.

  Vicki heard her mother often in the bedroom with her men—and in the living room and in the bathroom and in the garage—encouraging them, urging them, commanding them. Harder. Faster. Deeper.