He pinched his nostrils closed and yelled as he ran out the door, “You’re a horror target now, bitch! I’m hardcore!”
* * *
Nat scurried next door, past a long line of fans waiting for The Brass Hole to open for that night’s live heavy metal show. He walked straight to the front and began to explain who he was, but, being downwind, the bouncers already knew and let him inside.
They often agreed to allow him to set up a book signing table during shows. It served two purposes: it made him feel important, imagining all the people outside were waiting to see him rather than the band, My Dying Fart; and it offered everyone else some comedy relief. The gothic club down the street had a guy who practiced humiliation with his wife by showing up each night in teddy lingerie and standing near the dance floor with a big smile. The regulars looked forward to him as a humorous addition to the scene. The same went for Nat. Though no one ever said it to his face, Nat was the infamous “Brass Hole Asshole.”
Nat rushed to his foldout table and began going through his trade paperbacks.
Someone noticed the coagulating mess covering his hands and face. “Hey, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he replied. “I can’t waste this blood.” He proceeded to stick his finger up his nose like a quill to an ink well and smeared his name on the first page of the books. As he began to run dry, he pressed his entire face into books.
Curious, the guitarist of My Dying Fart picked up a copy of Tabloid Porpoises IV. He opened it, then flinched. “Dude, there are boogers in this!”
Nat grinned. “Nah, that’s my pulp! I should probably charge extra, huh? Well, it’s mostly my blood, but other fluids might make it on the page, especially when I’m signing at home. It’s all part of what makes me so hardcore. Other people are afraid of me because I’m too dark. I’m surprised you can even see me right now because I’m so dark and hardcore like Lovecraft, Poe, Matheson, Berenstain, and The Twilight Zone. I’m also dark… and hardcore. That’s my blood.”
The guitarist’s eyes began to cross, but then he caught sight of something shining under Nat’s black ball cap. “Is that… aluminum foil under your hat?”
Nat nodded. “I have to wear it at signings so I won’t shit my pants. Damn faggots think they’ll ruin my career with brown rays but I’m always one step ahead. And, hey, speaking of careers, I can help yours! I’ll mention your band in my next story so everyone will know how cool I – er, you are. You’d be in great company because I’ve done the same for Metallica, Obituary, Cannibal Corpse, Entombed, Nelson, Grave, Cradle of Filth, Wilson Phillips, Ozzy Osbourne, Rammstein, Hanson, Corrosion of Conformity, and Megadeth. I cuss a lot, too. Check this out: fuuuck. I bet you don’t hear that from many Christians, which I am. I also drink beer on YouTube. I’m hardcore. That’s my blood.”
The guitarist needed some hard liquor to wash this all away before the show started. “Cool, whatever. I–”
“I’ll remember you said that!” Nat blurted. “I’ll tell everyone how much you love my work. Thank you for your support. All the faggots will be so jealous now! I’ll tell those cunts, and you’ll be right up there with Trivium, Opeth, Napalm Death, Bee Gees, and Bathory.”
“Yeah, um…” The guitarist opened the book in his hand and turned around so that his rear end was against it. “Here, this is my way of offering good luck.” He passed wind on the pages before replacing it on the table and leaving.
It ended up being a busy night for Nat. Despite the laughs and finger pointing, he sold several books. No one had the heart to tell him this was because the club had a strict rule on no re-entry and the bathrooms were out of both toilet paper and paper towels. If someone was to leave to clean up and come back, they would have to pay another twenty dollars, or they could pay ten dollars for one of his books and share it with their friends – all but the first few pages.
As he left the club at closing time, he counted his money. He’d made enough for the bus trip home and another special one that he had been planning for a while now. This weekend, he finally had the funds for both the trip and a six-pack of beer, so he had to strike while the time was right. He would leave first thing in the morning.
His destination was the dreaded Fossil Lake, a place that carried the same name as his company, Fossil Lake Press. Even though the lake had been around for centuries, it just wasn’t right for that fucker to have the same name. He hadn’t known of it when he created his company, but when it showed up on a Google search, and above his own website to boot… well, that lake was clearly trying to ruin his career. It was time to confront it once and for all.
By the time he stepped off the bus just before noon, he had finished off the six-pack and filled two cans with urine, which had spilled under the seats. So, thanks to being dropped off a tad early, he had to walk a few miles to reach the lake. By then, he had been rushed to the hospital three times for exhaustion and dumped back on the side of the road. The third time took longer because the EMTs had accidentally picked up a dead opossum, instead.
So he reached Fossil Lake the following day.
It was a gorgeous site. The clean, blue water sparkled and, if one was patient enough, a unicorn could be spotted emerging from the lush woods surrounding it for a drink. Funny, Nat thought, there don’t seem to be any dark, indescribable secrets here. What’s so scary about it?
As he walked closer, he saw something that made his blood boil. “I should have known you assholes would have some part in this!”
In front of him was what appeared to be a makeshift lemonade stand, but the board nailed above read “Skullvines Bate ‘n’ Tackle.” Behind it stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with a dark beard, and next to him was a John Lennon clone with tinted glasses and a mischievous smile.
Nat barked at them. “Jerrod Balzer and S.D. Hintz … You faggots call yourselves editors and you can’t even spell your sign right.”
“Hey, Nat!” Jerrod said. “What brings you here? Could we interest you in a unicorn ride?”
“Yeah!” S.D. said. “You’d look totally goth.”
“Fuck you! I just want to know what’s so mysterious about this lake so I can deal with it. Why is it called ‘Fossil Lake’ like my press?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Jerrod said. “It’s because of the big bone.”
“Where?”
S.D. pinched one of his own nipples while Nat stared. “You have to row a boat to the center if you want to see it. Give us ten dollars.”
Fortunately, Nat had the money. He took out his wallet and began digging through the lint.
“And,” Jerrod said, “if you want the added Bate ‘n’ Tackle, it’s an extra five dollars.”
Nat wrinkled his nose and mumbled, “Yeah, whatever.” He paid them and suddenly S.D. disappeared.
“Hey! Look up here!” Hintz was sitting on top of the stand with his pants dangling around his ankles while he masturbated furiously. Nat couldn’t help but gaze, so he was caught unaware when Jerrod tackled him to the ground and gave him a wet smooch on the cheek.
Nat squealed like a pig until Jerrod let him stand up. Then he screamed at them, “What the fuck? How does that help me find the bone in Fossil Lake?”
S.D. was dressed again and back behind the stand. “I don’t know, but it was awesome!”
“Aargh! Where’s the fucking boat?”
Jerrod pointed toward the nearest edge of the lake. “It’s right there, but grab it while the old man who owns it is still asleep or he’ll be pissed.”
“What did I give you ten dollars for?”
“I don’t know, but I sure as shit hope it wasn’t for a blowjob.”
Nat stormed away and hurried to the boat, where he got in and rowed to the middle of the lake, then collapsed from exhaustion for four hours. After he was roused by bird droppings, he found an old cupcake under one of the seats and was energized soon enough.
He looked around but saw nothing.
“Hey!” he called. “Wherever you are, I’
m here to tell you that the name ‘Fossil Lake’ belongs to me and my press! Stay away from it or I’ll make you a horror target!”
Large bubbles rose to the lake’s surface directly in front of him, which he took as a response.
“That’s right. I’m hardcore like Lovecraft, Poe, Matheson, Twilight Zone, and Blue’s Clues. If you want to fuck with me, you’ll need to take it to YouTube and show me what you’ve got. I’ll always beat you, though, because I drink beer when I record and sometimes I use sound. Just fucking remember that!”
More bubbles rose, enough to push the boat back.
Nat steadied himself and continued. “That’s right, bitch! It’s on now, huh? This is for pink slips! Get up here so we can talk face-to-face!”
With a low rumble, the water foamed and churned until the massive beast of the lake rose high above him. He looked up in awe at first, and then his face turned beet red. His teeth gnashed and his eyes bulged.
The creature consisted mostly of a long, thick neck with pulsing veins running throughout, and its mushroom-shaped head lacked eyes or a nose, but had a large mouth on the top.
“No! No!” Nat shouted. “This is my story! I will not have giant cocks in my story or anywhere near something called Fossil Lake!”
In response, the monster spit something gooey in his face.
Nat cried. This was all too much for him. But then he remembered all the happy faces at the recent book signing. He had to keep going for his fans. They needed him to keep writing and being hardcore. He had to do it for Lovecraft, for Poe, for Metallica, for The Twilight Zone, for Kissyfur, and especially for My Dying Fart.
He picked up an oar and smacked the monster with it. It flinched and moaned, so he hit it again and again. He could hear Jerrod and S.D. cheering from the banks, “That’s it, Poopcone, beat it harder! Harder!”
Ignoring them, Nat continued his assault until his arms could hold the oar no longer. “All right,” he said between gasps. “Give me your best shot.”
The monster shifted to one side and a giant scrotum emerged from the depths. A testicle reared up and knocked him to the other side of the boat. During the fall, Nat’s pants dropped to his knees, making it all the more difficult to stand back up.
At the sight of his nudity, the monster suddenly shuddered and went limp.
Well, shit, Nat thought, whatever works!
He left his pants down and took a few more swings at the weakened creature with his oar. All was almost lost but it still had a lot of spunk left. It spun around to build momentum and smacked Nat hard, slamming him to the bottom of the boat and nearly capsizing it. However, something else happened – something unexpected. The force of the blow caused an object to be pushed from Nat’s anus, an old toy that had been stored there for years. The original 80s Tranny-former toy oozed at first, then shot out as the pressure was released with geyser force. Pent-up gas and feces from his high school years were finally seeing the light of day in what could only be described as a shitty ghost tornado.
Once fully released, Nat looked up and found the monster floating dead in the water, along with everything else that once thrived in the lake. The boat was also sinking thanks to the weight of all the Poopcone poo, so he had to quickly leap onto the beast’s corpse, with oar in hand, for safety. He managed to ride the giant cock to shore, but the effort was more than he could handle, especially after everything he had just endured. After sliding away to the ground, he fell unconscious.
The Skullvines boys tried to revive him. They guzzled cough syrup while urinating on him, but to no avail. Our poor hero had slipped into a coma. Friends came to the hospital from all around to offer their support. His room was plastered with rainbows and hair band posters. Interestingly enough, he no longer carried a stench or wore a greasy film. It seems that all the waste and gas built up inside him over the years had seeped through his pores, and he was rid of it at last.
Then, one mysterious, indescribable day, Nat Poopcone awoke and disappeared, kind of like Darkman, or Lovecraft, Poe, a Twilight Zone episode, Matheson, or Too Close for Comfort. Would he ever be heard from again?
* * *
It was a pleasant autumn day for visiting the cemetery, so Lisa and Leslie caught the city bus after school to do just that. It had only been a few months since their father passed away, and they weren’t ready to leave his side yet. Though thirteen and fifteen, they were often mistaken for twins, more so when they both wore black, like today.
They approached the large marble tombstone and placed flowers on the ground. After a brief moment of silence, Leslie began to say something when they both heard a click. They turned and saw a ratted sleeping bag a few yards away with what looked like hands sticking out of the end, holding a camera.
There was another click and a flash.
“Don’t mind me,” a voice said from within the bag. “I’m a publisher. I’ll make you famous! You know, like Cindy Crawford, Vanna White, Punky Brewster, and Lovecraft.”
Enraged, the girls ran up to the bag. Ignoring the shouts of “Fuck off, cunts!” and “I’m hardcore!” and especially, “I’ll make you a horror target!”, they proceeded to kick and stomp the shit out of it.
WHERE THE LOST ONES DWELL
Tony Flynn
There is a place, so deep in Hell,
Where they say The Lost Ones Dwell.
And in this place, a tree does grow,
From Fossil Lake, where blood does flow.
And the captives here will not know peace.
Their sufferings will never cease.
The blood flows forth their awful crimes,
And flow it will, for all our time.
And from this blood, the Tree draws strength,
And with more blood, it grows in length.
And from the branches of this tree,
Not leaves do grow, but Souls, you see.
The Souls, whose actions blood did spill,
Now a place upon the tree they fill.
Like fruit they grow from on the branch.
To escape from here they have no chance.
Because food are they to those in Hell,
In the Forest where the Lost Ones Dwell.
For beyond the tree, there stands alone,
A mountain The Harpies call home.
They know no mercy; nor pity; nor grace.
They hunger always in this place.
And only one thing can their bellies, satiate:
The souls of those put here by hate.
And so they fly from up on high,
And plummet forth down from the sky,
To envelop in their monstrous wings
Those put here for terrible things.
They pluck them whole from off the tree
And carry to their lair to see,
A nest of Harpies: Young and old,
But hungry all, and bitter and cold.
Yet even after, no peace resumes,
For every year, the tree does bloom.
And forth the tree, they rise again,
The souls of those condemned as men,
And plunged down to the icy pit,
To wait until Harpies see fit
To take them, and their Souls devour,
Those foolish men, seduced by power.
LANA DOESN’T GET LUCKY
Kerry G.S. Lipp and Emily Meier
Lana carried the severed head by the hair as she walked toward Fossil Lake.
The head belonged to Bart, recently deceased. So recently, in fact, that the blood still dripped from the jagged cut that separated his head from his body.
She arrived at the bank, popped a beer, took a sip and set the can down. Then she lit a smoke. Dusky purple light sprayed across the horizon, sky as smooth as the calm water. The sky and the lake mirrored each other.
Bart’s blood still dripped and his skin still felt warm. His dead eyes illustrated that age-old cliché of the silent screaming death, but Lana found it impressive. Clichés and stereotypes existed
for a reason, and Bart’s eyes both defined and justified that reason. She could stare at them all day and see something new, like artwork. Pure and unsettling.
His eyes told the story. Maybe it hadn’t happened until the last second or two, but he’d figured it out just before he died. She hadn’t seen his life flashing before his eyes as she removed his head, but they sure told the story of his death.
And what a story it was.
Bart, like every other guy, had one thing on his mind … and that thing was between Lana’s legs. Though she was old enough to know what guys were after, it still angered her each time she gave it to a guy she liked and in return he reduced her to a midnight text message.
I want to cut him into pieces, she’d thought the first time, sobbing, staring at her phone, willing it to light up with his name.
It never did.
She ended up hunting him down and cutting him into pieces. She loved every second of it. And that was how it started for Lana.
Reminiscing about the recent kill, she tossed Bart’s head and then caught it. Just like a ball. It weighed about ten pounds. Not too heavy, but heavy enough. Lana tossed it and caught it again. She stared out at the deserted lake as darkness descended.
Fossil Lake was perfect. It was surrounded by swamp, so no one wandered out this way often. Dragging the bodies this far would be more of a workout than she wanted, so instead, those got buried or burned.
But she always kept the heads for this little ritual. She’d relax by the peaceful lake with a six pack, some smokes and her iPod, before disposing of the heads in the secret place.
She tossed Bart’s head and caught it in between sips from her beer and drags from her cigarette. Toss. Catch. Sip. Smoke. Toss. Catch. Sip. Smoke. Toss.
Oh fuck. Slip.
Bart’s head fell. Lana just couldn’t bend her fingers in the right way, and the crown of his skull hit a chunk of driftwood. His eyes looked at her for a final second before he rolled, bounced, and submerged deep into the dark water.
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