Saturday, March 17, 2012
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Mr. MoOn's Review of A Town Called Suckhole
A Town Called Suckhole
By David W. Barbee
David Barbee serves up a fine slab of Dixie Fried post-apocalyptic buddy comedy with his first full-length novel, A Town Called Suckhole. The first chapter does an incredible job of setting the tone for the novel as well as giving a rich and hilarious history of Barbee’s twisted Southern nuclear survivors.
Our story gets rolling with Suckhole preparing for the annual Hell Yeah Heritage Jamboree; the biggest thing that happens all year in the futuristic Podunk town. Sheriff Billy Jack Bledskoe is investigating a string of brutal of brutal murders but receiving very little help from the extravagant hillbilly mayor, Rusty Boyd Crockwallop, who’s only concern is seeing the Hell Yeah Heritage Jamboree (man, I love saying that) go on without a hitch. With all conventional methods of crime solving exhausted the sheriff drags his deputy/son/translator, Jesco Ray, deep into the toxic swamp to search for answers from a good hearted abomination against god born in the muck and mire known as the outcast Dexter Spikes.
An assassin’s bullet later, Jesco and Dexter are working together on a case no one seems willing to help with. The odd pairing stir up trouble as they follow clues and southern fried instinct that lead them to each of the town’s cliques in turn. They brave the army of heathen street children known as the Hill Bills, they confound Mayor Crockwallop’s militia, and make friends with a high-maintenance neurotic talking whiskey still as they bumble ever closer to those responsible for the mutilated corpses. By the time the two reach the end of their adventure they’ve warped into awkward friends in an endearing way.
Barbee creates a detailed post-apocalyptic South that manages to parody the best (and the worst) the present-South has to offer. No stereotype is left unmolested giving the town and its history a solid yet hilarious feel. I spent so much time giggling I didn’t realize how emotionally invested I was in the characters until the end.
A Town Called Suckhole is a great book for Bizarro newbies as it contains several of the traits which I love about the genre. This book is full of weird characters doing crazy things in an insane world. Also, like a few other great Bizarro books A Town Called Suckhole packs a surprising amount of heart in amongst the strangeness and mystery.
Highly recommended for fans of Bizarro, comedy, and buddy action flicks.
One way trips to Suckhole here.
By David W. Barbee
David Barbee serves up a fine slab of Dixie Fried post-apocalyptic buddy comedy with his first full-length novel, A Town Called Suckhole. The first chapter does an incredible job of setting the tone for the novel as well as giving a rich and hilarious history of Barbee’s twisted Southern nuclear survivors.
Our story gets rolling with Suckhole preparing for the annual Hell Yeah Heritage Jamboree; the biggest thing that happens all year in the futuristic Podunk town. Sheriff Billy Jack Bledskoe is investigating a string of brutal of brutal murders but receiving very little help from the extravagant hillbilly mayor, Rusty Boyd Crockwallop, who’s only concern is seeing the Hell Yeah Heritage Jamboree (man, I love saying that) go on without a hitch. With all conventional methods of crime solving exhausted the sheriff drags his deputy/son/translator, Jesco Ray, deep into the toxic swamp to search for answers from a good hearted abomination against god born in the muck and mire known as the outcast Dexter Spikes.
An assassin’s bullet later, Jesco and Dexter are working together on a case no one seems willing to help with. The odd pairing stir up trouble as they follow clues and southern fried instinct that lead them to each of the town’s cliques in turn. They brave the army of heathen street children known as the Hill Bills, they confound Mayor Crockwallop’s militia, and make friends with a high-maintenance neurotic talking whiskey still as they bumble ever closer to those responsible for the mutilated corpses. By the time the two reach the end of their adventure they’ve warped into awkward friends in an endearing way.
Barbee creates a detailed post-apocalyptic South that manages to parody the best (and the worst) the present-South has to offer. No stereotype is left unmolested giving the town and its history a solid yet hilarious feel. I spent so much time giggling I didn’t realize how emotionally invested I was in the characters until the end.
A Town Called Suckhole is a great book for Bizarro newbies as it contains several of the traits which I love about the genre. This book is full of weird characters doing crazy things in an insane world. Also, like a few other great Bizarro books A Town Called Suckhole packs a surprising amount of heart in amongst the strangeness and mystery.
Highly recommended for fans of Bizarro, comedy, and buddy action flicks.
One way trips to Suckhole here.
Mr. MoOn's Review of Dinner Bell for the Dream Worms
Dinner Bell for the Dream Worms
By Jason Wuchenich
Dinner Bell for the Dream Worms is a quick two novella collection from one of independent fiction’s most twisted talents. Composed of the most disgusting fairy tale I’ve ever read, Stinky Incubus, and the most sex-crazed apocalypse story I’ve ever read, Skank Clusters, Dinner Bell for the Dream Worms is the most fun I’ve had while fighting the urge to vomit. This is gross out fiction at its rude and comedic best.
Stinky Incubus is the tale of Lemmy, an incubus that can only achieve physical form with flatulence. The ranker the gas the longer he can remain visible. In order to get good and upset enough to materialize for longer lengths of time Lemmy maintains a diet sure to make your innards rumble. While on a quest for ingredients for his vomit-inducing buffets Lemmy happens across an old crone and her fair maiden daughter. Lemmy falls madly in love with the daughter and visits her in her torrid dreams. As difficult as an existence is for a demon that requires farts to materialize is, throwing love in the mix only ensures chaos will ensue when the talented hands of Wuchenich are pulling the strings. Each character in this twisted little story has their own quirks and kinks that you’ll have to read for yourself because me glaring over them does them no justice. This story deals with folk lore, crap, tiny minstrel groups, feces, deadbeat water djinns, poop, labia coats, dookie, dreams, defecation, and true love. Yes, that much excrement but if you possess the continence required you’ll walk away amazed at Wuchenich’s ability to tickle your funny bone, sour your stomach, and pull on your heartstrings all at the same time.
Skank Clusters takes us down a completely different strange highway. The story is about tiny sluts that grow in clusters on vines. They possess highly addictive qualities and soon people the world over are strung out on the delicious little tramps. We follow the team of Tuggy and Raster as the have an adventure on the brim of the apocalypse as the world is over ran with sex-crazed psychopaths. Quick humor slaps you around as the boys stumble upon a way to save humanity. A second smaller story intertwines within this one that has a darker tone and relates closer to a few Skank junkies. Again, Wuchenich provides characters rich in oddity and humor in a quick paced story.
All in all Dinner Bell for the Dream Worms is disgusting, vile, rude, hilarious and very well written. Easily one of the fun-est extreme fiction books I’ve read in recent years. Highly recommended for fans of Bizarro, comedy, and extreme fiction fans in need of giggle fits.
Get your giggle-gag on here.
By Jason Wuchenich
Dinner Bell for the Dream Worms is a quick two novella collection from one of independent fiction’s most twisted talents. Composed of the most disgusting fairy tale I’ve ever read, Stinky Incubus, and the most sex-crazed apocalypse story I’ve ever read, Skank Clusters, Dinner Bell for the Dream Worms is the most fun I’ve had while fighting the urge to vomit. This is gross out fiction at its rude and comedic best.
Stinky Incubus is the tale of Lemmy, an incubus that can only achieve physical form with flatulence. The ranker the gas the longer he can remain visible. In order to get good and upset enough to materialize for longer lengths of time Lemmy maintains a diet sure to make your innards rumble. While on a quest for ingredients for his vomit-inducing buffets Lemmy happens across an old crone and her fair maiden daughter. Lemmy falls madly in love with the daughter and visits her in her torrid dreams. As difficult as an existence is for a demon that requires farts to materialize is, throwing love in the mix only ensures chaos will ensue when the talented hands of Wuchenich are pulling the strings. Each character in this twisted little story has their own quirks and kinks that you’ll have to read for yourself because me glaring over them does them no justice. This story deals with folk lore, crap, tiny minstrel groups, feces, deadbeat water djinns, poop, labia coats, dookie, dreams, defecation, and true love. Yes, that much excrement but if you possess the continence required you’ll walk away amazed at Wuchenich’s ability to tickle your funny bone, sour your stomach, and pull on your heartstrings all at the same time.
Skank Clusters takes us down a completely different strange highway. The story is about tiny sluts that grow in clusters on vines. They possess highly addictive qualities and soon people the world over are strung out on the delicious little tramps. We follow the team of Tuggy and Raster as the have an adventure on the brim of the apocalypse as the world is over ran with sex-crazed psychopaths. Quick humor slaps you around as the boys stumble upon a way to save humanity. A second smaller story intertwines within this one that has a darker tone and relates closer to a few Skank junkies. Again, Wuchenich provides characters rich in oddity and humor in a quick paced story.
All in all Dinner Bell for the Dream Worms is disgusting, vile, rude, hilarious and very well written. Easily one of the fun-est extreme fiction books I’ve read in recent years. Highly recommended for fans of Bizarro, comedy, and extreme fiction fans in need of giggle fits.
Get your giggle-gag on here.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
HEINOUS Nominated for Horror Novel of the Year at the Preeditors & Editors Poll
Whew, long title but I gotta admit I just love the sound of that. My brutal baby and first novel, Heinous, is up for votes now over at Critter's Writers Workshop.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
You can read what a few super talented writer folk had to say about HEINOUS when threatened with blackmail and tickle fights here.
You can read a sample of the wickedness here
You can order the wickedness here so everyday can be gloriously HEINOUS!
And to cast your vote and make this guy giddy clickly here.
Thanks for visiting my darkness. :)
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
You can read what a few super talented writer folk had to say about HEINOUS when threatened with blackmail and tickle fights here.
You can read a sample of the wickedness here
You can order the wickedness here so everyday can be gloriously HEINOUS!
And to cast your vote and make this guy giddy clickly here.
Thanks for visiting my darkness. :)
Monday, November 21, 2011
Communal Blinking
A THOUSAND EYES UNBLINKING!
Committing to weary memory countless atrocities while we grind our teeth to dust. Our history is a stain.
Gouge them out with forks, scissors, and screw-drivers!
...
Dig them clean with awls, steak knives, and cork screws!
The blood that trickles down our cheeks is as thin as the ice underneath us.
Our future is pain.
A THOUSAND EYES FOREVER BLIND!
Buy my books here
Committing to weary memory countless atrocities while we grind our teeth to dust. Our history is a stain.
Gouge them out with forks, scissors, and screw-drivers!
...
Dig them clean with awls, steak knives, and cork screws!
The blood that trickles down our cheeks is as thin as the ice underneath us.
Our future is pain.
A THOUSAND EYES FOREVER BLIND!
Buy my books here
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
MC Stitches
“Mic check one, two, one two.”
And then the screaming starts. No one hears it besides MC Stitches.
He sits in his basement cage composing the dopest beats humankind has ever dared to imagine. Deep vibrating organ pipes thicken the rapid pulsing drum n’ bass, adding an element of malevolence and a layer of pure funky groove. Then the first looped scream repeats. The howl of pain is intimate and pure. It is his scream from when he carved out his right eye for its stubborn refusal to look towards the future. It churns an avalanche of regret within his bowels and he smashes his forehead against the cage to retain the focus needed for his opus.
Blood drizzles down from the fresh gash and makes crimson lightning streaks across the over sized lens of his goggles. With one two-fingered hand he cues up the next scream. With his other hand, frighteningly complete with all five spindly fingers, he turns a knob and stretches the beats beyond the intro. The scream set to join the loop n’ groove, he reaches his two twitchy digits and flips the switch to the three hanging 17 inch black light tubes attached to the roof of his cage.
The flood of dark light illuminates the crowd of five corpses littered around his basement stage. The second scream, the first he ever stole, falls into groove after his shriek amidst the pounding rhythm. His audience sits motionless tied to chairs with duct tape and barbed wire. Their mouths hang open, eyeless sockets swallowing the light and drooling it down pale scarred cheeks. The cherry veins across his goggles glow a deep romantic red and his remaining eye tears. Two fingers give the spinning record a quick scratch then cue the next pair of screams. One deep and one shrill, they capture and rape the high and low end of the ever evolving groove in an aural masterpiece. Only MC Stitches hears it.
He grabs the mic with his complete hand and shouts through his spittle soaked bandanna in his broken voice.
“Everybody get up!”
Though his bastardized soundboards could easily replicate and repeat the phrase he shouts a slightly less rowdy echo.
“Get up! Get up!”
None of his corpse groupies move but their lack of devotion to the groove doesn’t deter him any. They each had chances to listen to his epic song. Extraordinary, unbelievably kind glimpses into his terrible towering masterpiece he offered them. Each cowered in fear. Each refused to see the beauty, dark and ferocious, in the gift of groove he offered them. So, he added them to the mix. Each was good for at least a scream or two, a sobbing whine, or a gurgled whimper. Each became a part of the groove. Only MC Stitch hears them.
His head bobs constantly, the groove ringing and throbbing in his ears and soul. He is a constant blur as the song builds and falls back on itself. Within a few minutes there are so many screams looping they run end to end rendering the groove, so tight and so dope, utter chaos. Sweat mingles with the blood drizzling down his face giving him an iodine-colored sheen in the black light. At the thirteen minute mark MC Stitches feels his epic taking shape.
“Can you dig it? Dig it! Dig it!” He screams hoarsely into the mic. Then he reaches his good hand into the blades of the industrial fan perched on his cage to cool him and keep the reek of the corpses away from him.
The fingers don’t cut cleanly but rather break and tear away from his pointy knuckles giving the powerful blades something to choke on. The fan blades stutter against bone and the motor grinds in response. He pulls his hand away and the blades resume full speed and fling blood and pulp across the crowded basement. MC Stitches waves his fresh stump in the air like he just don’t care.
He uses his two fingers (his only fingers now) to play back the sound of his groove-sacrificed-self-mutilation. Louder, slurred like a drunk, and over-lapped by looping screams. He feels it. He reaches up tugs the bandanna from his face. Gripped tight in his two-fingered talon he brings the microphone to his lip-less face.
A shout from above interrupts him.
“Gordon!”
The groove is ruined. Thudding bass is creaking into quick silence and the screams weakening into chuckles. Yet the echo of his living ghost father’s baritone haunts still.
“Ribs could be broken!”
MC Stitches digs his fingers into his lacerated hand and rocks back and forth. His father isn’t upstairs. His father is a wind borne demon forever slipping in, out, gone.
“Everything you do is failure except hurt, boy!”
Two blood streaked fingers tug one plug from an outlet in the wall and plug in another hanging nearby. Black light blinks off. A string of 50 watt bulbs ooze on flooding the room with dismal glow. It the split second of transition MC Stitches sees the roomful of corpses sigh. He’d kill them again if he could, he’d enjoy it because the first time every bruise, every cut, every scream was for the groove. And their squeals and grunts and wails of pain still weren’t enough for his epic. He sulks past his rotting captive audience and up the rotting wooden stairs knowing it needs something more. One more scream, caught from a confrontation that dwells in memories and nightmares, a scream from a wind borne demon. Only MC Stitch hears it.
If you enjoy this story and are that kind of twisted soul you can find more of my work for here.
And then the screaming starts. No one hears it besides MC Stitches.
He sits in his basement cage composing the dopest beats humankind has ever dared to imagine. Deep vibrating organ pipes thicken the rapid pulsing drum n’ bass, adding an element of malevolence and a layer of pure funky groove. Then the first looped scream repeats. The howl of pain is intimate and pure. It is his scream from when he carved out his right eye for its stubborn refusal to look towards the future. It churns an avalanche of regret within his bowels and he smashes his forehead against the cage to retain the focus needed for his opus.
Blood drizzles down from the fresh gash and makes crimson lightning streaks across the over sized lens of his goggles. With one two-fingered hand he cues up the next scream. With his other hand, frighteningly complete with all five spindly fingers, he turns a knob and stretches the beats beyond the intro. The scream set to join the loop n’ groove, he reaches his two twitchy digits and flips the switch to the three hanging 17 inch black light tubes attached to the roof of his cage.
The flood of dark light illuminates the crowd of five corpses littered around his basement stage. The second scream, the first he ever stole, falls into groove after his shriek amidst the pounding rhythm. His audience sits motionless tied to chairs with duct tape and barbed wire. Their mouths hang open, eyeless sockets swallowing the light and drooling it down pale scarred cheeks. The cherry veins across his goggles glow a deep romantic red and his remaining eye tears. Two fingers give the spinning record a quick scratch then cue the next pair of screams. One deep and one shrill, they capture and rape the high and low end of the ever evolving groove in an aural masterpiece. Only MC Stitches hears it.
He grabs the mic with his complete hand and shouts through his spittle soaked bandanna in his broken voice.
“Everybody get up!”
Though his bastardized soundboards could easily replicate and repeat the phrase he shouts a slightly less rowdy echo.
“Get up! Get up!”
None of his corpse groupies move but their lack of devotion to the groove doesn’t deter him any. They each had chances to listen to his epic song. Extraordinary, unbelievably kind glimpses into his terrible towering masterpiece he offered them. Each cowered in fear. Each refused to see the beauty, dark and ferocious, in the gift of groove he offered them. So, he added them to the mix. Each was good for at least a scream or two, a sobbing whine, or a gurgled whimper. Each became a part of the groove. Only MC Stitch hears them.
His head bobs constantly, the groove ringing and throbbing in his ears and soul. He is a constant blur as the song builds and falls back on itself. Within a few minutes there are so many screams looping they run end to end rendering the groove, so tight and so dope, utter chaos. Sweat mingles with the blood drizzling down his face giving him an iodine-colored sheen in the black light. At the thirteen minute mark MC Stitches feels his epic taking shape.
“Can you dig it? Dig it! Dig it!” He screams hoarsely into the mic. Then he reaches his good hand into the blades of the industrial fan perched on his cage to cool him and keep the reek of the corpses away from him.
The fingers don’t cut cleanly but rather break and tear away from his pointy knuckles giving the powerful blades something to choke on. The fan blades stutter against bone and the motor grinds in response. He pulls his hand away and the blades resume full speed and fling blood and pulp across the crowded basement. MC Stitches waves his fresh stump in the air like he just don’t care.
He uses his two fingers (his only fingers now) to play back the sound of his groove-sacrificed-self-mutilation. Louder, slurred like a drunk, and over-lapped by looping screams. He feels it. He reaches up tugs the bandanna from his face. Gripped tight in his two-fingered talon he brings the microphone to his lip-less face.
A shout from above interrupts him.
“Gordon!”
The groove is ruined. Thudding bass is creaking into quick silence and the screams weakening into chuckles. Yet the echo of his living ghost father’s baritone haunts still.
“Ribs could be broken!”
MC Stitches digs his fingers into his lacerated hand and rocks back and forth. His father isn’t upstairs. His father is a wind borne demon forever slipping in, out, gone.
“Everything you do is failure except hurt, boy!”
Two blood streaked fingers tug one plug from an outlet in the wall and plug in another hanging nearby. Black light blinks off. A string of 50 watt bulbs ooze on flooding the room with dismal glow. It the split second of transition MC Stitches sees the roomful of corpses sigh. He’d kill them again if he could, he’d enjoy it because the first time every bruise, every cut, every scream was for the groove. And their squeals and grunts and wails of pain still weren’t enough for his epic. He sulks past his rotting captive audience and up the rotting wooden stairs knowing it needs something more. One more scream, caught from a confrontation that dwells in memories and nightmares, a scream from a wind borne demon. Only MC Stitch hears it.
If you enjoy this story and are that kind of twisted soul you can find more of my work for here.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
