(Originally published by Horror Sleaze Trash)
(Originally published by Horror Sleaze Trash)
Kenny opened his eyes slowly, but the miniscule amount of sunlight coming in from the inch of open curtains was enough to make him squeeze them back shut. His head ached and his stomach was twisted with pain. The thirst that he felt was immeasurable. Kenny pulled himself from the comfort of the plush hotel bed and staggered toward the sink for handfuls of tap water. As he sucked down copious amounts of liquid, he attempted to put the pieces of the previous night together.
Kenny was the singer of an up-and-coming band known as Winter’s Dread. He remembered opening the show for the well known, regional act, Gloomy Forebodings, then drinking, doing blow with the headlining act, and meeting some girls after the show. Kenny’s band played music on the extremely heavy side, so the majority of attendees were usually young and sweaty guys looking to fight. It shocked him that a fair amount of attractive girls were at the show.
He found a towel on the tile floor and picked it up to wipe his mouth and face. The room was mostly dark, but obvious that it was littered with empty beer and liquor bottles. Kenny made his way back toward the bed. He just needed a few more hours of sleep before the band or their road manager would be knocking on his door. As he went to lay back down, he was able to make out a figure on the opposite side of the bed.
Kenny then had a memory of a sexy blonde in a cut-off black t-shirt and short jean shorts, that came on to him pretty hard the previous night. She was with the group of girls backstage, and this one had taken a liking to him. A faint recollection of the two of them snorting heroin off a guitar case entered his brain. He then recalled getting head from her while others were in the room. He wished he could put more of the night together, but it all melded into a fuzzy blur.
Kenny crawled into the bed to snuggle up to the mystery girl. He wanted to make some memories that couldn’t be forgotten. As soon as his naked skin touched hers, he felt the cold, clamminess of death. Kenny instantly released the tit of the corpse, retreated back, and sat up on the bed. He switched on the side lamp and slowly turned to investigate. The once living, breathing, sexy blonde, was now wide-eyed, stiff, and lifeless, with dried vomit down the side of her face.
Kenny frantically began to switch on every light in the room. He knocked over bottles in his haste, which heightened his anxiety further. The room had to be cleared of any illegal activity before he could do anything else. He flushed every baggie that he found, empty or otherwise, and continued his search.
Kenny found the purse of the dead girl and looked inside. He removed her wallet to search for an I.D. A driver’s license was visible through a clear portion of the wallet. Jessica Stevens was her name, and she was only…16 years old! Kenny’s heart dropped, his breath quickened, and a feeling of despair overtook him.
Kenny thought, not only is this girl dead, but she’s underage, and she died from drugs that I gave her. He fell to his knees and broke down. Kenny knew that there was no way out of this. Thoughts of gloom, sadness, and regret overwhelmed his being.
The eyes of the cadaver seemed to follow Kenny everywhere in the room he went. He covered her head with the sheet, sat on the bed, and put his face in his hands. Kenny knew that he had to call the police and give this girl the respect that she deserved. He was terrified, but knew of no other option than to face the dismal consequences.
Kenny picked up the phone with trembling hands, but before he could dial, there was a loud pounding on the door.
“Police. Open the door,” a gruff voice shouted from the other side.
Before Kenny could do anything, the door exploded open, and large monkey-like beasts rushed toward him. The largest creature opened its mouth and revealed large jutting fangs. Just before they entered Kenny’s skull, he woke in a panic.
Kenny shot up in the bed, switched on the side lamp, and looked around. He was in the same hotel room, but there weren’t bottles everywhere, and best of all, there wasn’t a dead girl beside him. In fact, there was no one there but him.
Kenny sighed deeply and let out a slight chuckle. It was just a dream, he thought, as he laid back on the comfy, down pillows.
However, the relief that Kenny felt didn’t last long. The entire hotel began shaking violently. He had been in a few earthquakes in the past, but never over twenty stories in the air. Kenny was about to leave his room and find the stairwell, when the shaking intensified. Rumblings, deafening crashes, and sounds of devastation flooded his ears. Screams of terrified and dying people could be heard all around. The hotel started to crumble and break apart. Massive chunks of falling debri rained down on him, and the floor began to give way from under his feet.
Kenny was awakened by his bunk shaking. It was lights out, and his cellmate, Big Chocolate, was ready for another piece of ass.
it was a night like many
out at the club
two or three pills down
out of my goddamn mind
at one point I was talking to
some friends I came with but
realized they were all just
strangers staring at me
like I was insane
sweaty and disoriented
living and loving life
awaiting the next adventure that
lay ahead amongst the fake smoke
moving neon lights and
then it was seen
I must be hallucinating, I thought
a beautiful blonde in a summer dress
sitting on a stool against the wall
getting fucked by a menagerie of men
her tanned legs up
accepting a multitude of strange cock
her man beside her
a bulky brawn bald type
taking it all in
as she took them all in
petting her head like a cat
as one after another deep-dicked
her for all patrons to see
at one point the straps
fell from her shoulders
exposing exquisite breasts
pulled them back up
god forbid tits are out while
a public gangbang is in session
the bald guy had obviously seen enough
he got in on the action himself
pumping his drugged zombie
mercilessly against the club wall
moments before he came
he pulled out
started jerking vigorously
shoved her head down
as she ingested his viscous offering
when they were leaving
he shook hands and gave
a handful of cash to a bouncer
as they exited
the club lights illuminated
streaks of cum and juices
running down each of her legs
numerous people obviously
had a good time that night
but she had more than a blast
I recently watched a bike tour on YouTube
where the hosts traveled along the Mississippi River
from New Orleans to the Kenner area
once in Kenner
they spoke on an area referred to as ‘cancer alley’
a stretch of land along the Mississippi River
where multiple petrochemical plants operate
it encompasses portions of three different parishes
St. Charles, St. James, and St. John the Baptist
the residents of this area are
predominantly poor and black
since the 1970’s numerous diagnoses
of cancer and sickness have been reported
hence the moniker ‘cancer alley’
residents in the affected areas have a
16% greater risk at developing cancer
than the surrounding whiter and higher-income
one area in St. John the Baptist Parish
has been recognized by the EPA as having
the likelihood of getting cancer from
air pollution over 700 times the national average
it has been labeled a ‘sacrifice zone’
a term taken from the cold-war era
it is disgusting the blatant environmental racism
occurring in plain site without any repercussion
the earth has thrived for
approximately 4.5 billion years
then enter the Industrial Revolution
reprehensible damage with no reversal in site
burning of fossil fuels
carbon emissions from car exhausts
methane and nitrous oxide emissions from agriculture
deforestation and urbanization
also the sickening lack of
compassion for our own people
all point to the actual problem at hand
we as humans
are the terminal cancer of earth
I was talking with my wife one night
while preparing food in the kitchen
my Grandpa that died of cancer
in 1988 came up in conversation
he had a tracheotomy
but didn’t get one of those
creepy robotic throat devices
I recounted to my wife
that the doctors told him to
drink beer and burp his words to talk
this brought up a memory that my mom
relayed to me years later
a few days before he died
he burped the words ‘good night’
before going to bed
I then proceeded to practice myself
swallowing air and burping words
I burped the phrase ‘I love you’ perfectly
realizing my new found gift
I then said to my wife
“if I ever have to get a tracheotomy,
I could still talk to you fairly well”
she said, “I hope that doesn’t happen”
I said, “I know, I hope I never have to
get a tracheotomy either”
she said, “no…talk”
it was christmas morning
I was happy
probably eight to ten
I got a new bike
and a cork gun you cock
and shoot a small cork ball
all of about fifteen feet
I felt like a badass
marching into the front yard
with my weaponry held high
oh I see the neighbor kids
got some realistic cork guns too
I raised my gun
letting them know that
I was ready for battle
when an object
with a base of metal
propelling at a high velocity
made contact with my chubby
little boy belly
leaving a stinging red spot
what kind of cork guns do they have?
they mean business now
well so do I
I held up my bag of ammo
as I hid behind a large tire
the bag I held was filled with
roughly thirty shots of cork balls
the enemy across the street probably
thought I was holding a bag of dog shit
they didn’t hesitate hitting my wrist
with their super corks
my wrist and my belly
now both on fire
I ran inside crying
my mom had a talk with the boy’s mom
the boys said that I walked out
provoked them into battle by
showing off my new gun and bags of ammo
all while shouting
I’ll shoot y’all
later in life
after moving to another school district
I befriended one of those boys
he was a few years older than us
able to drive the orange duster
trying to hit anything bold enough
to make its way in front of him
big redhead Steve in the back
egging us both on
while I hung halfway outside the
screaming improv haiku poetry
it was kind of my thing
I may have delusions of
grandeur about my writing
possibly leaving a legacy of sorts
this is true
but in my defense
I’ve always had that attitude
something creative to define me
anything other than the truth
pizza maker turned
milkman in a grocery store
and now back in a warehouse
(in that order, somewhat)
but that’s just me
always wanting something greater
with more meaning
member in a metal band
member in a punk band
member in a nu metal band
and whatever else I decide
to do in the future
(in that order, somewhat)
a satiating desire for happiness
leads me to believe that it is all a mirage
a fraudulence proclaimed by millions
only a facade of the subconscious
apprehensive tendencies muffled
into a catawampus catastrophe
blue is my mood
red are my thoughts
a blackish hue
pantomime my emotions
show me how elementary they are
pour upon me what I give off
a sulfur of hate
complete unadulterated shit
“Please reconsider. This is kind of a big deal,” pleaded Ryan.
I sighed, and said, “I have all these leftovers.”
“Fuck the leftovers. This is a world-renowned chef cooking for about a dozen people, and I have two tickets. You are going.”
Ryan insisted, basically commanded my attendance with him to the restaurant, featuring the new, underground culinary hotshot. I reluctantly pulled myself from the couch and began to get ready. I poured another drink, sipped the brown fluid, and looked for a shirt.
Once on the road, Ryan blared guitar rock and gleamed with joy. He yelled over the music at me.
“I’m glad you are coming. I didn’t want to have to take Phil.”
“How long have you two been roommates now?” I asked, just as loud.
Ryan’s smile melted and he immediately turned off the music.
“It just sort of happened. I can’t really explain it. Once turned to twice and twice to us banging it out almost every night. But lately, we haven’t been connecting. That’s why I didn’t want him to go. Plus, he doesn’t like soul food.”
“Wait, what?” I asked, confused at what I just heard.
“You asked how long I’ve been romantic with Phil, right?”
“No. I asked how long you two have roomed together.”
“Look, I think we’re getting close now,” Ryan said, as the guitar rock blared once again, louder than ever.
We arrived at a small boutique restaurant on the outskirts of town. It was seemingly closed, with very little light visible from the outside. I observed about 15 or so people in line as we parked.
As we walked to get in line, I turned and addressed Ryan.
“Man, about what you told me earlier. You know I don’t pass judgment on anyone, usually. But, I just can’t gloss over this one thing”
I paused slightly, huffed out a breath, and looked at the ground before continuing.
“I mean…who doesn’t like soul food? Come the fuck on.”
We waited in line with neither of us speaking much. Finally, approximately 15 minutes later, the door opened, and we were ushered into the main hall. It was very colorful, yet extremely elegant. As soon as we were seated, our first course arrived almost instantly. The service was outstanding and a true testament to that industry.
Each course they brought, and each bite I took, had flavors I never knew existed until that moment. Everything they sat in front of us was devoured without hesitation. Between courses, we each took turns trying to describe the flavor orgasms that took place in our mouths.
I think that it was between the 3rd and the 4th course, when someone at the table yelled out.
“That’s her in the takeout window!”
Everyone leaned or twisted their necks to see her. I thought I got a glimpse of the back of her head, but couldn’t be sure that it was actually her.
I forget what course it was, but when we had the oyster and oxtail bisque, there was a piece of oyster shell in mine. I wrapped it in a napkin and put it in my pocket as a memento.
Dessert was like nothing I’d ever experienced. A cornucopia of flavors, textures, and temperatures entered my mouth and left me in a state of heightened blood sugar bliss, with many unanswered questions. All in all, the entire presentation made a typically benign eating experience a truly unforgettable happening.
When people got up and began to leave, the chef herself made a brief appearance. She came through the kitchen saloon doors on a pair of crutches with her foot in a cast or something. That didn’t stop her from bowing, as we all clapped and cheered at the extreme rare sighting of her.
This left the entire room in a frenzied state long after her departure. Everyone stood and participated in their new found comradery, as we slowly filed out into the street.
As Ryan and I walked to the car, I thanked him for offering to take me. I couldn’t have imagined not going at that point. Another group of people could be heard, with one on the phone telling details of the night.
“You should have come, bro! It was fucking fantastic! She puts her foot in everything she cooks!”
I froze in my tracks. Of course, I’ve heard the figure of speech, meaning someone did a tremendous job cooking. However, that made red flags and whistles go off in my brain. All I could see in my head was her with that bandaged foot, condescendingly bowing to people who had just consumed pieces of her.
I laughed at myself out loud, realizing that those thoughts were completely absurd. I told myself that it must have been all of the wine that I drank, or perhaps, just my imagination running wild.
Ryan dropped me off and headed back out. All I wanted to do was lay my head on my pillow and sleep. My belly was full of great food and fine wine. At that moment, I finally allowed myself the ability to feel happiness without judgement. It felt good not to worry about outcomes before events take place. A sense of freedom took hold of me and allowed me to shed my superficial concepts of society, if only for a brief moment.
As I finished getting undressed, I remembered the oyster shell. I had a perfect place in mind to display it. I found my pants and retrieved the napkin. I unwrapped it to discover that it wasn’t an oyster shell after all. It was a goddamned toenail.
Fuck! She really did put her foot in it.
Months later, she was arrested for serving herself as a commodity. I’m not exactly sure of the charge, but you get the gist. She was indeed putting pieces of herself into the food. When she was arrested, her entire leg and a few fingers were missing.
Who knows how far she would have gone if she wasn’t caught? Would there be a new figure of speech eventually?
“She put her twat in that dish!”
I’m a victim of tradition, yes
but it’s much worse for me
I’m a victim of tradition
mixed with guilt and love
so here I am — watching Alabama football
with jersey on
drink in hand
some might call this a curse
I call it
(Originally published by Horror Sleaze Trash)
staring at a blank page
waiting for the word to escape
wanting the poem or story to come
to make me feel alive
any goddamn thing
to make my day worthwhile
so my reason for existence on earth
wasn’t just to make rich people more rich
my purpose today wasn’t just to sweat
eat and pay taxes
that doesn’t sound like
a life I am interested in
a deep dark hole of nothingness
one which escape is unforeseeable
then the thoughts of my parents
that died young come to mind
makes me more frustrated
rips at my soul
further hinders my ability
to elevate from this sink
so I pour another
and realize that tomorrow
is a different day
my wife and I
finished the yard work and
began on some inside chores
I put my earbuds in
began vacuuming and
started a Brooklyn Drill
rap mix on YouTube
I’ve been indulging in
UK Drill for a little while now
so I decided to give the
American counterparts a listen
to my utter disbelief
a fucking fried chicken commercial
actually broke into the mix
less than 3 minutes in
I was utterly shocked
how could they possibly play this?
I’m convinced my phone
is listening to me
how else would it know
of my absolute
love for fried chicken