MUTAGON II (Dynatox Ministries: Holy Mountain Outreach) Excerpt
Krallcon 2014, the annual writing conference hosted by cult author, Jordan Krall, is now live in East Brunswick, New Jersey. To celebrate, I present to you an excerpt from my forthcoming novella, MUTAGON II. Following in the footsteps of THE MONDO VIXEN MASSACRE, this novella is a Bizarro-centric vengeance fueled romp, both psychedelic and suspenseful. Welcome to Troilus. Click the image to be redirected to the excerpt.
Valentine Mayhem!!! I am proud to present the second novelette spinoff of THE MONDO VIXEN MASSACRE, a full-on grindhouse, ultraviolent bizarro story called, MONDO BRUTAL.
Doreen is a vixen assassin and tonight’s mission—to take down a crazy geezer named Butch Smeezer and his were-goat goons—is underway. But the tables are turned when Doreen is captured by some feisty were-goats and subjected to the carnal magic of a device called Old Mattie. Haunted by her past and fueled by the violence of the present, Doreen is infected with hate and must battle her own demons as well as annihilate the enemy! MONDO BRUTAL delivers a swift Bizarro Grindhouse slice to the throat in this second spinoff of Jamie Grefe’s THE MONDO VIXEN MASSACRE.
When G Arthur Brown (author of KITTEN), announced he was handing out story titles to interested authors for publication at his blog, “The Strange Edge,” I took up the challenge. Brown sent me two words: Guest Mozart. I wrote the story within one hour of receiving the title, because I already had a character, immediately grasped and molded an imaginary frame. It’s a short, funny, and gory story. It’s also about a father’s love for his daughter. Click the picture and enjoy.
Fantastic Earth Destroyer Ultra Plus by: Cameron Pierce and Jim Agpalza (A Review)
The synopsis of Cameron Pierce and Jim Agpalza’s FANTASTIC EARTH DESTROYER ULTRA PLUS as stated on the Sinister Grin Press website reads, “In the mining town of Itchy Zoo lives a boy with pumpkin flesh. His name is Tetsuo, and he’d like to tell you about the terrible things that brought ruin to his town. How he shot his brother, how the people of Itchy Zoo became puppets, how he fell in love for the first and last time, and how Satan watched it all go down.” And this, dear reader, is the entrance to a most beautiful, layered, melodious, dark and touching tale of Bizarro love and transformation.
Masterfully illustrated by Jim Agpalza, FEDUP is an adult fairy tale, both precisely told and richly imaginative. If you are unfamiliar with the sometimes mind-boggling intensity of Bizarro fiction, this should serve as a perfect entryway into your adventure of such a multifaceted and surprisingly warm genre. Agpalza’s illustrations are pinpoint companions to the intricacy of Pierce’s literary vision and helpful for those among us who may have trouble visualizing the otherworldly body-mutations and imaginative leaps that Pierce so aptly employs: pumpkin flesh, whale feet, puppet people, or bodies with organs on the outside of their skin.
And the real beauty of this book is not in its strangeness, which, by the way, is completely organic to the universe Pierce has created, but in the originality of Pierce’s writing. It’s strong, strong enough to attract a wide readership, one that it deserves and only time will tell. As the book is separated between one page of text and one page of illustrations, it is easy for readers to not only follow and see this intricate story, but it also lets the story sink in on a different level, something pure and simple, universal and wet. At times, I felt as if I were reading a beautifully rendered children’s story for adults (and make no mistake, this work is most certainly not for children). At other times, I felt I were swimming in the musical word-verses of a more-fantastical J.A. Tyler or a more sinister Russell Hoban. However, those comparisons fail to give Cameron Pierce the praise he deserves (we shall not compare, only hint). This is a truly original and unique piece of work, fueled by a brother’s pain, by love, by choice and necessity, and by acceptance. It is a work where magic happens and happens again, where families are torn apart and where passions burn deep, burn oceans inside a person.
In conclusion, if you are curious or interested in Bizarro fiction and would like to own a book that you will be able to finish in one sitting, a book with gorgeous illustrations and a compelling story, then FANTASTIC EARTH DESTROYER ULTRA PLUS is a book that you should certainly consider buying and reading and re-reading. I have a feeling that when I dip into this book again, knowing what I know now from having finished it, that a different story will emerge from its ocean, and it will be even better than the first time around. It will be fantastic.
Stephen Graham Jones on THE MONDO VIXEN MASSACRE: “This is what a 650 page novel looks like, with every single boring part excised, bloodily. This is the beating heart of the action movie always playing in the back off all our reptile brains. This is a massacre. The best kind.”
What we have here, quite simply, is the best 80’s action/exploitation/junk cinema experience that never was. You know how you watch a trailer from those days and it makes you think that this movie is going to be the best thing ever and then you find out that you’ve already seen all the good…
The Mondo Vixen Massacre - Kindle edition by Jamie Grefe. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Use features like bookmarks, note taking and highlighting while reading The Mondo Vixen Massacre.
Finally, the Kindle edition of THE MONDO VIXEN MASSACRE has arrived. Treat yourself to some vixen cheer this holiday season. I promise it will be money well-spent. Thank you, everyone, for your support this year. Happy Holidays from Camp Grefe and The Mondo Vixens.
I stand by a tree, watch Palace play. The stage is too big: bare black, just boards and empty lights and Will Oldham is a white t-shirt and jeans. He’s skinny, slowly entrancing and I can’t move away from the tree in this heat. I hear Hope to remember the face of the singer or the way people lie down on the lawn as if music is sun. That same man is driving a car through hoops of flame. I ride horses like an electric fence that hums teeth and gums. I remember my grandfather being kicked purple by a horse. There is no music. I run away. There is a photograph and it is a shipyard made of wood and rust. It doesn’t look like a palace. It feels the way the north side of town smells: cement, paper, dirt. I am the only one who hears, and the horses are soft to teenage ears, just a drip of Agnes. I conjure the voice of a singer who sings so well he doesn’t sing at all. I am no longer in Michigan, all smog-lungs. I do not hear his voice anymore over the language and the din of tones. Hear my own voice. I am standing by a tree. I cannot speak well. The palace stage is set anew by a band I don’t see, because we are walking through the crowd trying to find a hill to sit and dream music and be silent horses of death.
I used to make noise music. Inside me, I probably still do. Maybe it comes out in the writings. If not, that’s okay, too. I’ve played basement shows in Seoul, stood babbling alone into a microphone in Tokyo. I recorded albums on labels like Self-Satisfied, Knife in the Toaster, Swampland Noise, and others whose names I’ve forgotten. I edited sound-art for Rudolf Eb.er and have seen the buckets he kept in the closet.
Christmas is near. It is time for noise.
If you write a review of THE MONDO VIXEN MASSACRE somewhere on the Internet, especially Amazon or Goodreads, I want to reward you with a batch of my homemade noise, whether that be a rare live set, a collaboration, or an entire album’s worth of quality extreme noise. All you have to do is write the review and send me the link (and the email address where you want me to send the files).
My email address is in the “contact” section (on the left sidebar). Or, you can easily reach me through Facebook.
Thank you to those of you who have already purchased the book. You’re helping to support my dream and my life. Honestly, there were times when I was writing MVM and I was only fingers and eyes, mainly fingers, fingers and music. I think if you read the book, you’ll understand. The vixens do.
If you find yourself in the gift-giving mood and wish to reward me with me a book or three for the holidays, your warm gesture will be most appreciated. View my Amazon holiday wishlist here: APPRECIATION.
Something NEW: all of this year’s (Eraserhead Press) NBAS authors are contributing random gadgets/trinkets/awesome shit so that we can put together awesome grab bags for the people who review all seven of the NBAS books. You might get wind-up tit toys, a voucher to grab Bix’s junk, a handwritten love letter - who knows. The point: there will be a small gift from each author in the package. Message any one of us (Andy de Fonseca, Amanda Billings, Jamie Grefe, Bix Skahill, Daniel Vlasaty, Dustin Reade, myself) with links to the reviews. Once it’s verified, we send you what might be the best (or worst) care package you’ve ever received in your life.
German Chocolate (Birkensnake #6: Wild Conformations)
This is probably the best short story I’ve ever written. It’s also the one I had the most help with from a couple highly perceptive and imaginative editors. You know who you are, Tom. It’s the story of a party gone wrong. It’s a love story. It has blobs that will annihilate you. And Shayla…
I hope you enjoy this story. If I had ten of these gems in me, I could sleep a happy man, but in the meantime, I’m still stuck at that party, probably out on the back deck watching the pontoon make ripples in the black water.
The link is embedded in the first sentence, but if you’ve made it this far: click here.
Hello. If you are interested in reviewing my new book, THE MONDO VIXEN MASSACRE, either for an established review site, for your blog, or even for Amazon or Goodreads, please get in touch with me. Let’s talk. I am looking for reviewers/bloggers who want to help spread the word. You will receive a digital copy of the book and I will promote your review/thoughts across social media platforms.
Get in touch! If we haven’t spoke, introduce yourself and where you’d like to place the review. I’m looking forward to the interaction.
Since THE EMPRISE REVIEW has been cast into the void, probably for quite some time now. Here is my poem, the only poem of mine that they hosted, although I never received any word of its publication, had to dig and dig and dig until finding it uploaded and, apparently published, but they remained silent and forever out of touch:
Livid Men, Violent Men
They felt the slop of this city when garbled voices bellowed; - crept to the tenth floor and watched through curtained windows. Perched over the drained canal, an orb bled open the train tunnel. Earth: digging, pounding, crushing; a skull stomped on the sidewalk. One worker, on the day of the black haze, slapped men, livid men, violent men. Choking air: his boy spit into a woman’s mouth. Hounds of the Other Waste swarmed, violated bus passengers between stops. The smell of mussed hair, their dirt encrusted nails. Fingers and zipper - his wedding photograph in a stranger’s bedroom. Police officers were napping in the back on the day of the incident. One officer awoke, slumbered an apology. The cameras in this city, he said, will not help you; others might hurt you. Near dark at six. He, engulfed in dust, smoked Chinese cigarettes on the roof after dipping raw mutton slices in boiling oil. Dead adultery in Mandarin. Ah, to be adrift here, the boy said, lashed the whip at the photograph. We have passed all points of departure. The end stop is a train tunnel that will take us out of this city. There are no tickets, he tells the boy. There never were. Never.
I wrote about the experience of reading R.A. Harris’ book, “All Art is Junk.” The review has a lot to do with skin and eggs, but trust me, the book is well worth your time, especially if you are a fan of bizarro and science fiction. Thank you, Rob, for the book.
The title of this post will lead you to my Facebook “Writer” page. The content between this tumblr and that feed will be relatively the same, but the Facebook page is likely to include more links, conversations, and archival material. If you are interested in interacting via Facebook (and all that follows therein), by all means “like” the page and keep in touch. Otherwise, this page will still be used for all published output. Thank you. Read on, my friends.
In preparation for the autumn 2013 release of my Bizarro novella, The Mondo Vixen Massacre, I present five delicious pieces of mine that will help set the table for future stories to come, hand selected for your reading pleasure.
I have two poems in the beautiful Desert Issue of LIES/ISLE. Both written while living in Beijing, China under a most massive veil of smog, sandstorms, and grit, I hope you enjoy voicing these poems over and again. As always, thank you for reading.
06/29/2013 UPDATE: a new publisher (details soon) has acquired this novella with a tentative release date of late 2013/early 2014. I feel like a Spring Breaker. Thank you, world and, readers, prepare yourself for the beast.
I am currently shopping my latest novella, TARANTULEECHEN, an homage to 1980s/90s B-movie/exploitation cinema that features a cheerleader punk band, a most gruesome and hungry monster, an ornery sheriff and his sidekick, plus a whole of hardboiled action, sorcery, gore and punk rock. This 19,000 word novella is looking for a good home with the right publishing house. Please contact me for more. Thank you.
Here is an excerpt from TARANTULEECHEN:
It’s late—the hum of night crickets.
A two-story farmhouse.
Shlurp-clmp-shlurp-clmp: a beastly form, wiggling too many limbs, drags across the lawn toward a shed and enters the dark.
Behind us, slippers shuffle and a throat clears, mumbling grumpy, gravelled spite. A shadow, a man.
Frank Donner throws open the front door, his chin gleaming stubble in the moonlight. He’s all silver hair and bifocals, a lumpy old bastard. Donner scans, squints, leans on the porch beam, hands in his pockets. It’s nothing, only:
Smoke drifts horror-jitters over the yard.
The shed glows green.
He folds his arms, spits. Suddenly—
The shed is a series of fizzles, pops, cracks like bone grinding metal.
Donner grits his teeth.
The roaring shed morphs to a growl.
He unsticks himself from the porch beam. “Can smell you in there,” he says, “and I want you to go back to where you came from.” He coughs. “Counting to three—you, you understand? Leave. This. Family. Alone.” He doesn’t count to three, instead pushes his dentures further into place and clacks.
The thing in the shed ejaculates a splat.
“Wrong night,” he says. “End this legacy.”
The thing farts.
The front door bangs open, slippers on stairs, index finger on book spines. Donner’s weathered hand yanks out a leathery hardback, ancient, faintly glowing green. Those dentures clack, suck dust. He bites his lip, searches inside. He’s muttering. Nervous hands fumble page to page and suddenly stop. “This ends,” he says, tapping the text, “right here.”
Over his shoulder, a bay window frames the yard. Curtains flutter and we focus past them on the monstrous form, how it has emerged from the shed, backlit, ominous, and ready, but it just looms for now, a heaping chunk like smokey knives made of bile.
Lightning snaps the shed.
Those appendages warble, shimmy slow; the beast disappears in a snarl.
The front door kicks back open for round two. Donner stands armed with the book and ready to read. He tips it open, rakes chin stubble—thunderclaps—and grins. He’s found the right page. “Got yourself into a heap,” he says, shuffling to the shed. “Not your fault, still—a fucking heap and this is it.”
He looks up to the sky. He stares ahead at the eerily quiet shed.
Each step is a Morricone harmonica wail of reverbed tension.
Cold creeps over Donner when he stands at the shed door. It’s time, he thinks, time to put a stop to this. He clears his throat, looks down at the opened book and then, his mouth shooting right into our very soul, as if in some kind of witch-trance, growls out, “Beast of the Wretch, and Misery-Monger of the Ceaseless NightFrost GloomHole, I summon your return to the Caverns of UrOoze, to the Vomitous Hail and Sleet Stench of the Vile Clench Rod. May Fire Suckers eat your Soulless Corpssssssssss—.” Cough.
He breathes, stands unsteady, phlegms up snot. Otherwise, it’s quiet. Over, he thinks. It’s finally over. Let’s study this turd.
He yells, “kiiiiiyaahhhheeeeee,” Bruce Leeing open the shed door, but that beast, those appendages, those razored claws, all of its hulking girth stands close, too close, dripping, waiting, just grinning evil down on poor Donner.
Donner turns the page, there is more: another stanza—unread.
Blood Mask: On Room 237 or, Bonny Billy vs. Wendy Carlos
This is our mother-brain: a synth, raga, and a donkey. It shed hair, hard pressed by the question that doppelgangers are hawks carving chairs to disappear. And this beard is how I growl, see nothing but “impossible windows” in the goat-light of a film clip.
Here is the hotel where we strip rooms, luggage-stuffed organs, gutted screeches and a wave. This is not a lunar mission. These are not notes about shapeshifting. This is about wolves, eagles, and the subtext of a frozen frame.
We are a hedge maze: a duck is Jack, a boy’s sweater, beastman, finality, cacophonic pastness, gold rushes like “all the best people.” I’ve left you a key.
Unmask me in blood, mother-brain. Flood the shaft with royalty. Men in robes clink glasses when music blues the light. Unravel. This carpet is a diamond pattern of brothers, a family escaping these “pictures in a book.” All is not yet.
Not real. I’ll bring that ball and gown to the hospital as an alternate ending. It’s fit to shine. Show me the prince who looks like a Minotaur for this tale, our lost soundtrack of revelation, is the final interpretation on how to maunder.
Keep to a whisper. The dead do not whisper, they sing master
I am at the house—again—to ignore a bag of bread, shell casings; guests stare, gnaw the perimeter like trees that get tangled in your hair when I bring you cake. You are hungry, tossing potato sacks down stairs. Let us sit at the table and wonder, we can conjure how to stop time. Rum raisin is not my prayer. You would know this if you didn’t fall asleep on street corners or use your belt and stave hunger, stay the father. I once saw my grandfather come out of the mirror. We built molotov cocktails in the bedroom and set priests on fire—the driveway is where goblins burn. Humans burn. Priests burn. We know how young men run through forests and drink milk, become branches or paste for maidens to eat. We hobble around the camper. I’ve brought popcorn and corn cobs for us to suck until we explode in gorilla suits with pink star-trails and organ flare. It’s not enough—melt. It’s not enough—save my mother from eating an apple. I’ve taken showers in green, hid under covers and shoo away teen boys who feign love for girls who take trips in vans to Nilbog. My grandfather is an angel. Goblins don’t exist. Repeat. This is not your kingdom of shadows. This is Provost in hell. We are a modern family: the van, sunlight, clover leaves and pianos lure mouths open—this is about not eating food. And if we speak, we shut our eyes to hear. And if we scream hard enough, our family just might sprout magic windows and stones of love. Press your hand against the stone. Press your hand against my heart of ham. Feel blood run. I’m made of sap, leaking son.
“A dead man’s face can tell us better than anything else in this world how far removed we are from the true existence of physical substance, how impossible it is for us to lay hands on the way in which this substance exists.”—Yukio Mishima (via quotecatalog)
It wasn’t that I was a writer and you a wife or a good place for our son to play. It was none of this. I don’t speak of dark kitchens at night when you are asleep and I am at the edge of the window looking at windows upon windows—how hot night becomes when soaked in drinks from a locked cupboard or freezer. I should have spoken of axes and typewriters. Typing is not just the clack of the keys or the insertion of paper into the machine, it is a ghost of hate that I will turn novel. I will complete this ghost even if it means I should reach a baseball bat or you walking up the stairs backwards, you dragging me to the freezer, but I’ve slashed all engines, dismantled the transmission and stolen the family key. I have the key. Here is where love lives unchangeable in the glow of soft light. It’s 1920 and I’m wearing a tux. You will notice my tux, because there was a photograph taken of so many people and you were not among them. We were not yet married. You have never stood in the kitchen at night or used an ax to chop down a door. There is more light where you are. The chef comes. I am redder after dark. But I’ve learned. I’ve learned how to follow your little steps around corners. You move quicker than the father. It’s my burden to be a father. I will make things right. Fathers make things right. It snowed on my birthday. My fingers can no longer type like the way snow falls on a maze at night. And it is night when we step into the maze. It is all I can do to give you something to remember me by—in the kitchen, the bright kitchen where you eat ice cream and drive trucks into hotel rooms. There is a room in the maze and I have the key. I’ve seen they way the other women smile. I have seen the father of the girls and I have to keep walking this maze so someday you’ll know what it means to be a father. I won’t carry you far. I won’t carry you at all.
We enter the cabin—it’s often a cabin, a house of wood: lights dim, click off. This is how it begins. Girls play guns in the woods, stack stick-piles by the creek and summon fire in Shinto dirt. They stick fingers in the dirt—never like this, not a blood soaked ritual by the grave. It ends up like this. Shane is the first to go: lopped off legs, eyes gouged, hair torn, mouth zeroed. There are no football players in our house on this night of red—not anymore. First names are not written, they are jack ‘o lanterned and lit. Do not use a hacksaw or a meat grinder or an ax. We know this. We know how to throw rocks in empty windows as if hitting a ghost-girl or a rivered spirit will release the darkness of being a teen. Shane is a teen, so is Eva, Linda, John, and Bill—dead, dead, dead. They are not fashion models. This is not Milano. Cut. Arms pile in the fireplace of the cabin: a fisherman’s net, a brick, a saw blade, rope. This drip is the sound of teen snapshots on Tumblr. Leave. Suck drugs from the soaking lungs of bones in the closet. Burn the oven. Torch the cabin. A step does not make a sound. The rocks we throw in the windows of the cabin in the woods, when we hold them in our teen hands, they are soundless oracles. They never make a sound and I would like to think of that ghost-girl in the dark by the window. She is still there and knows this night is a teen slasher, a way to ruin parties: the sex, the drugs, the blood, the dirt. Turn off the lights.