Because I'm seeing a lot of this lately...

Little straw man on his little straw knees

wasting my time with mediocrities.

Shot him in the middle of his little straw face, 

got his little straw brains all over the place.

Shoved him in a grave, just a little straw pit,

filled it with six feet of my fucking bullshit.

Wherein Our Hero Acts the Pompous Jackass

So in the absence of Codex to work on (although the work of revision is apparently endless) I have been dabbling in other realms of fiction, just to keep my brain lubricated for when I start the second book.  I've been tooling around with creepypasta just because I want to work on my overwriting and the bare bones medium forces me to make every word count.  It sucks on the one hand, when all I want to do is gamble about tossing flowery phrases over my shoulder like some sort of syphillis addled satyr, but on the other hand it is a medium that is literally designed for nothing more than a flesh crawl, the horror equivalent of a cheap nut.

I've also been reading but not writing fan fiction for a project I am contemplating where I write the most atrocious troll fiction ever written for all the various fandoms I have a Hate-On for.  Fan fiction is a medium I've dabbled in before, God Forgive Me, but I really think it is the best method to skewer certain types of fiction and I think I am going to savagely enjoy it if I decide to develop it.

All of this has had my Lovecraft story suffering badly.  The problem with TCM is that I don't really have a central plot and so the whole thing suffers from lack of focus.  (Well, that and I have no idea how real detective work goes, which is why it resembles a sexy summer blockbuster more than anything by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.)  Of course, all I want to do with it is establish the Chris By-The-Throat Lovecraftverse in my head; the actual story I am writing for that universe is another project involving coyotes but some of the settings and tropes are being tested out with Everyone's Favorite Unicorn Hunters.  I'll finish the story-I just can't promise the ending will make sense or even resolve any issues; it's just psycho fluff.

Anyway, that is the story of the Dread Scumfuck's Quill and what he has been doing with it.  I'll have a section of Codex up on this blog again as a preview in honor of submitting it to the fourth publisher so far.  I'm not quite on the verge of swallowing my pride and self publishing, but I can see it without a telescope.

Goodnight, heathens.

Oh Noes, Not Another Writing Project

Yeah, I started another writing project in an official capacity.

With Last Call, Last Stand finished, I wanted to keep a story thread on ZS alive for the most practical reason: the more people on that forum who like my shit, the more people will eventually buy Codex when I finally get it cleaned up and submission ready.

I wasn't sure if The Crystal Menage could drive a narrative; I'm still not sure.  I'm encountering a few hurdles, perhaps the most striking of which is that I know nothing about Private Detective work.  I'm fudging it a little by making this a particularly shady private detective (I know all about being a shady character) but I feel like the story is going to showcase my lack of knowledge at some point.

Still, TCM has been a fun story to work on.  I'm enjoying writing the current chapter but am hung up on describing one of my favorite sensations-the smell of two girls having sex.  I feel like I could wax poetic on it for days but when it comes right down to it I'm having trouble getting the point across.  I'm also striving to shatter a standard American Fiction trope-that is to say, when you get married, the story ends and the credits roll.  Our (as yet unnamed) Hero is happily married, albeit in a quasi open marriage, but he and Carmen will still manage to have plenty of adventures.

I'm also moderately concerned that this is the story that is going to get me banned from ZS.  Not that the Fiction forum is heavily moderated or anything, but I have a feeling that my post is going to get flagged by some deeply offended busybody and I'm going to have an ideological battle on my hands.  I don't need or want an ideological forum battle; if they ask me to take down the story I will, and post it here on the blog instead.

Anyway, the thread is here if you are intrigued by the concept-and you know you are, ya fuckin' pervert.

(Shhh, shhh...you know Daddy loves you.)

Ass to Mouth Republic: A Poem

Ass to Mouth Republic
A Poem for Interesting Times
Chris By-The-Throat 2012

A burial shroud of fog blankets my city
my red wood forests
my gulf stream waters.

Propaganda corpse dick blocks my tonsils,
gagging, choking, no daddy I'm not hungry,
silences my screaming so I can't say what it tastes like.

My hands are both broken but I clutch at the wheel.
Bitch ex wife cut my brake line,
now I'm dancing Tueller with a brick wall and I can't even clear leather.

They stomp on my enemies and I laugh while we plummet
two fat slug-bodies wrapped up in stars and stripes
careening towards the same pavement and comparing cockmeat.

Better men than me baked this apple pie
worse men than me have fucked it and shot their load
but I have to eat it anyway-free range, low carb, fair traded ass to mouth.

Left hand jerk me off, right hand fist my asshole-
now switch
everything's different, god bless democracy, goddamn this dick tastes like shi-

Stories in the Chamber

I have about three million things to do before Codex Kalachnikova is ready for submission but I have at least one hurdle done-I have settled on a final list of names. The manuscript is done, just needs to be transcribed, but honestly looking at it, I'm kinda depressed that it took me this long just to settle on names. I had used placeholder names to make my progress faster, but I was regretting it later when I read some of the passages and was like "Sweet Zombie Jesus What A Stupid Name" and ditched it. I tried to come up with a good, consistent scheme for religious names-while keeping in mind that Watership Down is the post apocalypse equivalent to the Bible.

While I was angsting over names for this project, I diddled a couple of other projects on the side.

For one, I did an epic chunk (30,000 words) on a story about my nephandi. This is the biggest, stupidest waste of genuinely good writing I've ever done. I'm archiving it deep where no one can find out what a disturbed, self absorbed fuck up I am. Still, if I have a magnum opus in my life, somehow I think this story (not this segment, but his whole story) will be it-and really, that just makes it sadder, that my magnum opus is the ultimate form of Self Insertion Fan Fiction, with a dash of Multiverse theory.

I also completed another chapter to Last Call, Last Stand and worked out the rest of the outline. Jon Mackey, bless his godless heart, is still in limbo but I have some vague idea of where he will end up. I'm not sure if I want to publish it on ZS yet, though I should-I owe it to the folks who were reading my shit. Honestly i'm not wild about it. But Mackey does deserve an ending, doesn't he?

Finally, I also started two new projects, one based off this post (Crystal Menage) that dovetails into Lovecraftian Horror and one, my first actual zombie story, about an unusual and obscene Post Apocalyptic Romance. I'm debating whether to publish either on ZS (Well, the Crystal Menage is probably never going to be ZS appropriate) and waffling on the issue. I need another project like I need a hole in the taint, but I have really been enjoying doing both.

Really, I think it has all been creative stalling on finishing up Codex, but you know...it feels good to write again, anyway.

Story Time

Today I would like to relate to you, my friends and fellow degenerates, a story of the indians, with a little scumfuck twist. I am not sure what tribe it belongs to; I read it in a book of comparative mythology and I always liked it. It contains a lesson we would all do well to heed.

Long ago, before any of our grandfathers were born, Grey One made his way along the path he had made. If you saw Grey One, you would not know him-you would call him Prickly One, or Porcupine. But he carried no quills then, just soft grey fur. Now when Grey One wanted to, he could run as fast as Fox; he just didn't want to. Another thing you may not know about Grey One is that he can climb trees as well as anyone, though of course he seldom had cause to do this.

So as Grey One took his time along the path that he had made, who should come by but Bear, huffling and whuffling as he went quickly along Grey One's path. "Ooof, Grey One, get out of my way."

"I don't want to; I want to take my own time," replied Grey One.

"Ho-ho, your own time, eh?" And Bear stepped on Grey One, his sharp claws putting deep scratches in Grey One's back. Then he continued along the path.

Grey One licked his wounds and went down his path further, but then along comes Bobcat, hissing and snarling as she tore rapidly up the path. "Grey One," he growled, "get out of my way!"

"It's my path, I made it," replied Grey One, and Bobcat laughed and swatted Grey One aside with her claws, scratching him deeply and knocking him into a tree. Then he went along Grey One's path.

As Grey One continued up his path, bleeding and limping, soon came Dog, barking and slathering up the path as fast as he could. "Ho-ho, Grey One! Get out of the way, you're blocking my path."

"It's MY path," sobbed Grey One. "I made it!"

"Ho-ho, then make this." And Dog leapt upon Grey One and shook him hard, until Grey One was dizzy and crying. Then Dog continued up the path.

Then Fox, cleverest among animals, came trotting casually up the path, his tongue lolling out as he bounced along. Grey One shuddered when he came near, but Fox only stopped and asked "What is wrong, Grey One?"

"They all scratch and bite me," sobbed Grey One, licking his wounds.

"Never mind that, would you climb that tree and get that pinecone for me?"

Grey One considered this and climbed up the tree as nimbly as a raccoon, and brought the pinecone down to Fox.

"Now I will help you," said Fox. "Come with me and roll in this mud." He stepped over to a muddy patch of the path.

Grey One crept closer and said "As long as you don't bite me." And he got down and rolled in the mud, to Fox's roars of laughter. "Oh-ho, Grey One! You look like a chunk of dung rolled in a ditch! Well that's just what I want, oh-ho!"

Then Fox went to a nearby thornbush and began to place them, one by one, into the mud on Grey One's skin. Both Grey One and the thorns were coated in black and brown, and so they remain to this day. Eventually, getting uncomfortable, he asked Fox what he should do while the mud was drying.

"Nothing," said Fox. "Just take your own time."

Grey One nodded, though he still didn't understand. It was dark by then, so both Fox and Grey One began heading back down the path, at their own pace. Then, whuffling and snarling, Bear came up the path, and saw them there.

"Oh ho, get out of my way, Grey One, or you'll get more of the same." He showed Grey One his claws.

"Why don't you just step on him?" said Fox impudently.

"You are no friend of mine, but your idea is a good one." And so saying he brought his paw down on Grey One's back, but the thorns jabbed his paw and he howled in pain before heading off the path, to Fox's taunts and roars of laughter.

Then along the path came Bobcat, hissing and snarling, for the hunting was poor. When she saw Grey One, she yowled at him "Get out of the way, Grey One, or I'll swat you away again!"

"Give him a swat, he deserves it," crowed Fox.

"You are no friend of mine," said Bobcat, "but your idea is a good one." And she swatted Grey One hard. But the thorns poked her paws and she hissed and spat in agony, licking her wounds and yowling, while Fox roared with laughter.

Then who should come along the path but dog, snarling and slathering as he came up behind Fox & Grey One. "Whuff, move along you two, I'm in a hurry," he snarled at them.

"He won't do it," said Fox. "He is stubborn now, and you should teach him a lesson."

"Whuff, I will," said Dog, "though you were never my friend." And so saying he leapt on Grey One and bite him, shaking him hard, but only for a moment before he was howling and trying to spit out the thorns-but they had grown long and cruelly barbed by then, and he could do nothing but whine and bark plaintively.

"Eat him alive, you monster!" shouted Fox, and the two continued along their path. He looked for others to trick, but by then word had escaped that Grey One was Prickly One and to be respected.

And now he takes his own time.

The moral of this story (Indian stories don't have morals, or even endings but this one does when I tell it) is as follows: talk as reasonably as you want, be as nice as you want, bend over backwards for civility if you feel you must, but if you don't have some thorns, motherfuckas gonna walk all over you.

The American Wet Dream

So not being able to write at work is chewing on my resolve. At one time I could discretely both log on to ZS and save my text in a preview post in the forum to copy over later to the blog or to the novel or whatever. I could do this because of a foolishly simple backdoor in their security protocols. (If you are wondering why I am not on ZS any more, that is why-and because I feel bad about showing my face there without more story updates.) Anyway, they finally figured it out and blocked it.

It cut me off from my main source of reading material-gun blogs and the Zombie Squad forums-as well as from my way to write at work. Luckily, I have kind of solved both problems with my Kindle-I think. With it I can both save blogs and forums for later use at any time, and kind of make notes in certain documents. Last night I managed to start a porno novel-just a couple of pages, but the fact is I have finally adjusted to the flow, albeit in a cumbersome way, and badaow! I just might be back in business.

Lately I have been contemplating a porno novel writer's life. I see these things for sale in the porn shacks and shit, so somebody must be publishing them. And in my head there is always a porno track playing, so I was just doing something that came naturally to me-living an overtly absurd and cruel fantasy life. And it comes easily to me; I think once I get going I'll be able to bang one out (hee hee) every month or so. If I can get, I dunno, two or three hundred bucks a pop for a trashy porn novella...fuck it, I ain't above it. Never have been, never will be. And hey-won't it be nice to have a tossy novel that has its gun facts straight?

I should probably work on my other shit too, and I will, but this time, this year...I think this is the year of the Sky Valley Slave Academy. Why? Because if they say write whatcha know...do I know perversion, baby.

Look forward to slash be warned: I may have a preview for you sick fucks. I'll mark it LSFWTU (Less Safe For Work Than Usual) because I'm such a motherfucking saint.

Because you needed more proof of how fucked up I am...

...I present to you a random bit of erotica I started but never finished. I always wanted to finish this one up and send it to some publication that still publishes written erotica-those still exist, right? they have to-but I probably never will. Names changed (more than once) to protect the guilty; as originally written this was a fantasy about a cute jewish chick we used to have a crush on.

Without further ado...an excerpt from "The Crystal Menage"

It was 4:48 PM on a dull grey Friday and despite the stack of bills angrily impaled on my desk I was about ready to give up waiting on the new client my charming young secretary had penciled in for the end of the day, turn off the neon sign and get reaquainted with my good pal Drunken Stupor, with whom I had a dinner date at 5 sharp. I could hear Amanda's keyboard clicking idly, though what she was doing (at 9.50 an hour, no less; I'm too good to that woman but lets face it, my business would be even more boned without her) this close to closing time was beyond me.

The silhouette in the frosted door made me reconsider in a moment, as any good private eye always regrets his job less when seeing a curvy long haired shape through frosted glass. The knob turned, and she stepped inside, one long leg at a time. Both Amanda's and my eyes clicked to her immediately; she was definitely a sight for the sorest of ocular cavities, and as she made her slow, hesitant way to my secretary's desk, we both shared a mischevious wink. Our day was looking better already.

She was short-maybe 5'4" at the outside, with a body that pulsed with living sin. Her hair fell in dark, carefully permed ringlets that tumbled around her spa-tanned skin, and her carefully manicured fingernails were wringing nervously at a brown manilla envelope. She had a long trenchcoat on that did little to hide her curves, and a pair of sunglasses were sticking out of the pocket, but the dress that showed from beneath was raw coutre, probably with a name I couldn't pronnounce. "Mind if I smoke?" were her first words, and Amanda, god bless her, said with all the professionalism she could muster in wet panties "Not at all."

The woman pulled out a menthol and fondled it nervously, and looked around my admittedly unimpressive office. "Not quite what I expected from your website."

"Bandwidth is cheap, Mrs...." I started in, though Amanda shot me a jealous look. I came up behind her and lit her cigarette for her, close enough to feel the nervous heat rolling off that tight little body in waves. I couldn't resist grinning at my wife, who by now had retaken her seat.

"Mrs. X, but call me Serena," she replied. "I'm paying cash and I want this discrete-even from the IRS. That's why I came to you," and here she gave my dismal office a pointed glance, most notably the stacks of bills on my desk, "instead of someone more reputable-say, someone who would report his findings to the proper authorities."

"We speak the same language, Mrs. X," I said smoothly, and she finally seemed to ease up a little. She slide out of the heavy trench and plopped it across the back of her chair. I could see Amanda taking a discreet peek up her dress, and I made it a note to ask her what color her panties were as I took another rickety chair and straddled it backwards beside her. "So what can I help you with?"

"Well, it seems I'm missing a husband and...well, a trinket. A family heirloom, of no value to anyone but myself..." I could already smell trouble, but as I lit a cigarette of my own and I watched my secretary lick her red lips I decided the trouble would be worth it. "The husband can take a flying fuck into the arctic for all I care, but I need the trinket back."

"Mmmm." I dragged off the cigarette. "So you want something, presumably worthless, and you don't want it reported to the IRS?" She flinched a little, and I knew my blind toss had hit it's mark. She fidgeted some, uncrossing her legs with the whisper of silk against flesh, and I could see Amanda, the consumate minx, squirm a little in her computer chair. "Probably also need it aquired under the table, without your husband's knowledge." I licked my lips, and breathed deeply of the woman's scent as she held me pinned with those dark, glimmering blue eyes. I smelled some perfume with a name long as the Amazon and something else. Something familiar-desperation. I gave her a comforting smile. "I can probably handle both for you." Actually, the aquisition might be a problem, but I knew a group of specialist that would work for dope.

"Oh, thank you," she breathed, and I could smell the gin on her breath. Probably working up her courage all afternoon to walk into a place on this side of town. She leaned in and suddenly that red mouth was hot and slick against mine-just for a second, perhaps before she realised what she was doing. "I'll do anything...anything to get it back. Here." She pressed the envelope in my hands. "This is everything I know. Please...hurry."

Amanda quietly inserted herself in that moment, stepping beside us and wiping up the lipstick with her little pink bandanna. She kissed me as well and said "Don't forget your hat," she said, warmly and wickedly. "I'll have Serena stay here for now, so I can get the relevant case details out of her." Which was as good as code for 'I'll have her panties off by the time you get back, sucker, and you have to go to work.' I guess I lost that round, but really, I don't call that losing. Besides, I had bills to pay.

As I reached over behind my desk for my sawn-off 870, seeing Serena's blush as she realized that Amanda and I were an item, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. Looks like it was going to be an interesting case, and if I played my cards right, I might not even lose money this time.

Naturally, I'd never even mentioned price.

And now for an entirely different bit of fiction....

I, Prophet

I awoke at dawn when KUTULU spoke to me. I finished a pack of cigarettes while I listened to the thrum of His power. It was a sound like the moon being unscrewed and dropped in a vodka martini. With a twist of lemon and a good, mid-shelf brand of vodka. Grey Goose maybe. I'm not quite sure, I wasn't listening very closely. From the fractured images I slowly piece together a narrative while my crystal stank and smoked black smoke on it's shrine.

Below the red, fecund loam of my grave, my own private host of gods and demons stirred irritably. It has been a long time for them, even in nonlinear equasions. "Shhh, shhh," I urged them, though my lips came apart when I uttered the words. "You've been so patient. So patient. Just a little longer. Enough to juice the body." They rustled, a chittering seethe, or a seething chitter, indicating their displeasure. But I was the Prophet, and they had no choice but to straighten up and march with my linear timetable. Poor bastards; they were mostly cannon fodder anyway.

The fact that I cannot see the stars is hampering my calculations. I can compensate some by listening closely to the tick-tick-tick of certain strange, low frequency ions that radiate from those stars relevant to His cause. However, there are inconsistencies in the mathematics that I cannot account for.

At the highest levels of chaos theory, all strange probabilities become likely.

First I reach for a mind, a fresh sentient life force to take the edge off my fast. The first I sense is heavy with cancers, praying for an end to conciousness. His anguish is hot and sour, but I drink it in greedily. Turgid brown liquid fills my cavities; it swells and expands to the limit of my conciousness. It is not enough for me to rise through this cursed dead damp earth, but I can at least smack my lips and crave further.

The next I sense is purer, a savory cornucopia of pulsing essence-one life draped in another like a burial shroud, adrift in amniotic fluid. It has a refreshing fizz to it-like a newly uncorked champagne, and like champagne it brings a sensation of warmth, of zest. Slowly it stops moving, the spark gone dim. If all the variables are accounted for properly, it will be three days before the mother goes to the doctor to ask why he is so still.

My hands-my good strong hands!-begin to pry at the dirt above me. The insistent chittering grows louder, in anticipation. My work is outside of time; I do not even follow it's progress. Only up, up into the cursed light of YHVH. My erudite master pulses hard in my thoughts, my lungs, my throbbing death cock.

I can taste air now. A little starlight is starting to show through.