Status Updates From Horror Sleaze Trash: Prose ...

It was a slow day in Hog City, at least it was until Mickey Finster ran into the Sheriff’s office.
“Sheriff Clapp. Come quick! There’s trouble over at the whorehouse!”
Fortunately, Sheriff Clapp had already finished butt fucking his deputy and had already been in the process of zipping up his fly.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Come on blowjob buddy, let’s get out of here.

It didn’t matter to Tyke or Scab that the cure for the disease that decimated humankind was unaffordable to average Americans at the time of the outbreak. What did matter to both of them, standing in the dusty ruins, was the single bottle of the aforementioned medicine found in a rotting desk drawer.

And that is the start of how I ended up on a pirate spaceship in the year 2491.

“To what dreams may come,” he says.
“For shizzle, Ham-Dizzle. And in case I never told you before... I love you.”

“Do you think it’s him?” said Jenkins as he choked down a sip of acrid vending machine coffee from a styrofoam cup.
“Yeah, I think it’s him. I’d like to think that finding a guy with a garbage bag full of victims’ remains means it’s him.”
“But he doesn’t fit the profile. The guy we’re looking for never robs his victims.”

“Bitch!”

“Miss Bitch to you, fucker.”

Some people should never have kids, she thought, holding her baby’s head underwater. If God wanted them to live, he would have made them strong enough to fight back.

Of course, any man who called himself Pindick and who revealed his undersized member to the world had to have a sense of inner security that did not depend on factors about which other men were sensitive.

After they’d fucked, Eugene drank in the experience with all his senses by wallowing in the damp patch, swaddling himself in the sweaty sheets. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Shelly strapped on her bra, collected the money from the nightstand and stuffed it into her purse.

It was just before the dawn of the end of the world, and what a better way to shake things up than an extinction level event delivered right to your doorstep like a paper bag full of steaming shit.

Harry’s previous attempts at infidelity were a history of failure. Women he met on business trips and at conventions always declined his invitations to come back to a hotel room for meaningless, wonderfully mechanical adultery. One of them, when he asked her why not, said, “Oh, come on, darling. You’re the kind who always says, ‘I can’t do this. I love my wife’.”

The overpowering stench hit Daniel squarely in the face. Public restrooms were never a pretty sight and this one was no different. In fact, upon first glance, the design looked like it dated back to the Roosevelt Administration. As in Theodore Roosevelt.

The beginning of the end begins with a tit-flick and a cantaloupe, and Mike’s wife, Kalli, flipping on the light, dropping the groceries on the floor, and saying, “Oh. My. God.” Saying, “You son of a bitch.”

Dave was asleep on the studio floor in a nest of soiled porn mags and empty lager cans. His face lay drooling into the polystyrene box of a half eaten kebab.

His brain was yet unaware of the hangover awaiting it caused from a heavy night of absinthe and 7up cocktails.

A sickly smell emanated from one of the corners of the studio where a pile of vomit had been lazily mopped up with someone’s still life studies.

Marvin was one of those “I know enough Spanish to get by” type of people. Which I’ve discovered usually translates into, “I don’t know shit.”

A psychic had been considering renting the storefront next to the bar I owned at the time. She came in and asked my opinion as a business owner about foot traffic in the area, specifically whether I thought it was a good idea to rent and if she would be successful. She wasn’t sure if it would be a wise investment.

He posted the ad and went to bed feeling hopeful for the first time in days. When he checked his email the following morning, he found that he’d received several messages from a variety of different women. He weeded through them until he came to one that sparked his interest. Her name was Melanie and she was a makeup artist who was looking to meet a nice guy.

After the bathroom, the two would turn sideways to fit out the door, walk down the wide short hallway, and then turn again to go into their small bedroom. They had their clothing made special, a blue suit coat and a blue dress. A black button-down shirt, and a black silk blouse with lace. All patched together, just as they were.

There was once a rapper so crazy that he would shoot a member of his crew on stage at every show. Big Killa was his name and he would literally pull out a gun at some point during his performance and actually shoot one of his homies right there, live, in front of everyone. And the people ate this shit up!

One advantage of a religious education is a life-long obsession with sex.

when the two friends could no longer avoid the angry men with guns + atvs + leafblowers, they made their way to the gates of the walled city just before sundown and knocked on the small steel door to the side of the gates. a small slit opened. two eyes appeared in the slit, flicking under long lashes from one man to the other. —what do you want?! we dont allow straight white men!

In the dead of the night, suddenly I awakened and sat up in my bed thinking I heard a noise and the first thought that crossed my mind was—the treadmill’s in the basement. Why the hell was that the first thought that crossed my mind?

“You know, I wasn’t always a raspberry,” said the raspberry.
“That makes sense,” Mr. Dudley said, glancing up from their resume. “You would’ve had to have been a flower before you could be a berry.”
“No, no, no,” sighed the raspberry. “I was actually never a flower at all.”

All Dave could think about was trashy women.