Sunday, October 19, 2014

Texts with Nevins

"Facefaller: A Dirk Tangiers MetaMystery"

You won't get rich broadcasting the mating life of eels, but it sure is fun

Maderos Estates: Comfort. With a vengeance.

Last night, we dreamt we saw a plane crash

Meeting at three. With the boss machine. Stone sculptor. Your own personal Stonehenge.

He wore a face that had seen better days. Folded and crevassed. An old brown shoe.

In this district, skyscrapers come standard with antimissile defense pods.

Binky's farts smell like grass-fed geese.

Tattooed primitive art star gave the herpes player tambourines.


2089: A blind sculptor who works with radioactive clay.

Downtown's new transgendered Virgin Mary. The immaculate self conception. Immaculate contrarian.

Lost in the Arabian Sea. Two thousand years from now, an ancient archive of text messages reveals the wisdom of a philosopher known only as Shyguy69.

Careful, his dad is that cannabilist televangelist.

Tattooed primitive art star sweats cigarettes and bleeds dollar bills.

Your mustachioed daughter.

Nine year olds firing rocket launchers.

English people encounter wildcats in the bathtub.

In terrorism, postmodernism is forced to confront its shadow, the premodern.

Bradford Mantooth and Bentley Undercarriage riding out the Novelty Express. Stanley Mantooth- opinion maker to the stars

Anxiety Momma.

Stop motion movies 30,000 leagues under the sea

A low-level museum curator, responsible for greenlighting the ebola found object installation, which killed hundreds of museum goers in last month's exhibit...has been promoted. A real downtown badboy, that guy.

Maderos is too lazy to handclap. Whatever will we do with her.

Ladies over 90 sure do know how to make much ado.

Relax. Let the happiness come to you. All flavor of oases.

In the future, each of us will become our own corporation.

Binky's inevitable revenue stream.

Shoot your wife, move to Mexico, and call it art. As if.

Who here hasn't at one point played the part
 of thuggish executioner?

Dudes who work in bike shops need to stop being so confident. It's all become too much. Urban cowboys, astride titanium steeds. Bike shop dude beat up surly record store clerk.

"Division's gotta run an ETL to squeeze it into our existing system."

Systems is in town. Do not fuck with systems. Alcor loses his skin, over there in sales. FedEx drop ships the bodies from orbit back down to earth. An assistant plugs them into the acclimation device until they are ready to activate.

Haven't you figured it out? White people feel better, more authentic, when they patronize the art of black people. Leave behind your collective guilt, descendants of slave holders. Jay Z is a mope. 99 problems. Art ain't one.

A&E Presents: Shampoos of the 70s. Pert. Prell. Head and Shoulders. A golden age.

Mad Heiress: High-rise deities. Cossacks in waiting.

Night of the Living Skeptics.
Nihilist cocktail parties sure are fun.

Band name: Candy Hank and the GayLads

The jittery dentist

Holocaust fashion week presents: Starve it, Flaunt it. Where black and white striped pajamas are always in vogue.

Mad Heiress: Bristling with cultural dissonance. Bristling with cultural dissidents. Bristling with cultural diffidence. Bristling with cultural indifference. Etc.

Ethyl Ethanol ran her fingers across the smooth metal of the shock collar around her neck. "Won't go far," she whispered.

Hobney jammed the edge of the sonic blade up against the cook's throat. Outside, the honey peddlers had set up shop right outside Boscoe's tent.

Out on Blue Six, shock drones were in full play. Protein shipments had been withheld for weeks. The streets and the arcades, a churning sea of violence. Bodies doing to metal, metal doing to bodies.

Today is "write like a syphilltic 19th-century Parisian poet" day

trailing plumes of smoke from rockets in flight resemble slender fingers, outstretched and imploring

Zelcko Zizek's brandy-soaked tongue caught fire as the flaming oyster touched his mouth. All around him, the table erupted into paroxysms of cruel laughter.

The Duchess sank her fork deep into the ambassador's hindquarters.

Tort-Knocker's capitalist impulses were rendered inert by the flatulent juggernaught of his bowels. He would forever remain a salesman manqué.

Sociotranscdental matrix swallows our hero at dawn.

From the "Aristocrats Having Epiphanies While Engaged in Acts of Unconscionable Homicide" series:

Swithens grew homicidally impatient with the cagey, sebaceous behavior of the sommelier. He found his right hand creeping toward the handle of his sonic dagger.

Later that afternoon, amidst the bodies piled around him, Werfer decided he was henceforth a dedicated psychoculturalist. Slowly, he unwound his notebook and began to write.

Botany had always been of especial interest, Lady Wayforth determined, tightening her garrote around the flower girl's throat.

Bringing the oar down upon the guide's head, Charles realized that he'd always rather loathed the sporting life. "You know I hate nature!" he bellowed at the crumpled form that lay before him in the canoe.

Esmerelda would not be deterred. Stepping across the pile of limbs in her father's gore-bespattered drawing room, she set to work on her watercolor of the water lilies.

In the memorial garden at the Dresden Atrocity Park, Patterson ran a retinal spool to narrow down his list of future victims.

Perched atop the battlement, in between sniping townsfolk with his father's crossbow, Charles continued work on the mathematical treatise that he knew to be destined to become his legacy to modern science.

Towelling off the entrails from his jewel-encrusted harm stick, Bryce thought to himself "I never could get the hang of Saturdays alone in the lodge."

That night, the rebels smeared excrement throughout the entryway of Bohampton's summer chalet. The next morning, his wrists still smarting from where the wrist ties had been, Bohampton remarked that, odor aside, he rather liked the new look. Deidre, her hands still gripping the autorifle, tutted.

Von Hindermilk slowly eased back the safety catch on the Mauser machine pistol. Drawing a bead on the unwashed curb urchin, he considered his options. Might another homicide make late for that afternoon's croquet match? And didn't he already have enough saturnine tableaux for his sketchpad?

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A man in purgatory has two apples. What is he doing wrong?
A girl on a swing remembers a nursery rhyme from her childhood. What is her sin?
A man and a woman enter a restaurant on an overcast day. What have they neglected?
A young man purchases a commercial jazz recording. What has he failed to consider?

Still waiting for a company to create a horror video game where there's a type of monster that rapes the player. Your avatar is pinned down, in 1st person POV, and can rotate the mouse to move your head to look back over your shoulder, where you see yourself taking it where you sit. Maybe Call of Duty XXII can feature an unlock weapon- the shotgun that fires a non-lethal concussion round, allowing you to rape and teabag stunned foes.

Executive Restraint: the thrilling new Jack Palmer techno thriller. Coming soon to your favorite feed.

A guitarist with broken teeth. Working as a dishwasher in New Orleans.
A jackpot barker with a blind dog. Selling tires in Akron.

Dance of the Arthritic Remission Pooves
Dance of the Apoplectic Consignment Snakes

Mad Heiress: When a failure to connect the dots becomes lethal

Today, everyone riding around in cars just looks weird. Moving around with their asses suspended a few feet off the ground. It's like I can see through all the metal and the plastic and see them seated that way.

Everettbong. A new leisure paradigm. Only from ToysPlus.

The best in off-world synthetic meat products.

Tourquay Judkins said his prayers and dusted off his forget-me-nots, then slid into the cramped cockpit of his Exocet Interceptor. This run was gonna be a bitch.
Judkins screamed into his helmet mic as the G forces sculpted out his bowels against the inner lining of his flight suit. "I'm gonna shave the coon on this one, boys!"

Futuresex drone emitter codes. Remote dronegasm strike with hellsex erotica missiles. Sexy warheads make terrorism 'rotic. Only from ToysPlus. A new way to kill.

Autoerotic asphyxiation! Blue faces and moist groins litter the battlefield.
Onanist dispersal bomblets drop in 3...2...1...drop! "Soon our enemy will be busying themselves with more immediate personal matters, at great sin to their strict religious customs, and their hands will be too preoccupied to handle their weapons" remarked the general, with great satisfaction. "Like ducks in shooting gallery" affirmed Nadia.
Weaponized Viagra.

We ignored the signal. Willfully misread the signs. And now, fire falls on Klimek Farms.

Car bumpster: I brake for pederasts

The cockpit of Bunkey's interceptor resembled nothing so much as a dayglo abortion.

Bosco gripped the hedge trimmers and swore an oath. Someone would pay for this.

Peaches Geldof visits PervTechLLC. "The devil's hiding amongst the bacteria," she was heard to remark.

In related news-- AIDS is just Star Trek fanficiton.

My girl works part-time at the slaughterhouse.

Celeb child names:
Search Object
Meta Data
Hit Counter
Hard Coder
Available Bandwidth
Zero One

When you're sick, it's like your entire being is one big mucus farm. Booger trawlers.

It's 2089, and Sting's son and Bono's daughter rule over the British Isles with practiced benelovence.

Decisions adjusts the straps on his jumpsuit. Everything was in order. Powering off his feed, he takes his first step out of the platform of his orbital balloon. Descending through upper atmosphere, he powers on the gauss rifle. Below, on terra firma, the Chinese Ambassador stands outside the ruins of the US Embassy. He addresses the assembled troops.
"Defeat shall not come to us on this day. Nor any other day!" he bellows.
Indeed, he had reason to be overconfident. Operation Skin Force had been a huge success. American troops had been caught unaware. Rendered into a state of erotic paralysis. Moist in their most tumescent defeat. The Chinese shock force had razed the embassy, and taken 6,000 hostages. A blank check for China's Pacific land grab.
The targeting site on Decision's HUD lit up the ambassador's head like a Christmas tree. Gyro stabilizers kicking in, compensating for turbulence. Slowing down now. He brought the rifle up and peered through the scope.
One mile up, a Chinese sexfeed satellite caught Decision's burn-in out of the corner of one of its many eyes. Routed the feed back to a security station on the mainland.
Shit was about to get real.

Stankbutt is angleing for promotion again. When will he learn?
The herculean task of removing Patterson's mouth from the air hose.

1969 was the year that all rock stars grew mustaches.

Mulroney's ointments were the talk of the Bowery
Mulroney applied a thick layer of the ecotoplasmic white goo to the boxer's bruised midriff.

Tenderly, he caressed her eyestalks. Driven mad by citrus.

Uli slammed the ship into reverse, caring not that he incinerated a fruit vendor who'd parked his rig too closely to the Nova Express.

"Vouchsafe for the Holidays: the latest installment in the Mastodon Skyline Adventure Feed. Brought to you by Toys+.
 "Hellborne Prodigy" the new line of leisure combat robotics. Only from Toys+.

Easter Egg Island

"Yuggothian Ambassador" the next generation of alien symbiotics. "One spray and she'll know the difference." Only from Toys+.

"Star+" the new pers app that lets you add your favorite star to any digit spool show you want! Customize your feed! Only from Toys+.

We've entered the duct tape phase of our lives. Rigging shit that we are incapable of fixing.

Caught! Can Bodhisattva get a witness? Black tofu in the hour of rage!


Mr Sniffs and Cherry Justice laid waste to the casino floor.

Cast adrift on art-star island.

Free rectal exams, no questions asked.
Back alley eugenics.
Pockets Winklestein: Student Proctologist

Diarrhea on the Moon: A Jock Sturgess Deep Space Adventure.

Chapter One:
Sturgess knew he only had one shot. As he felt the intestinal cramp pushing the inevitable explosion from within his bowels, he released the air valve on his vacc suit and angled for the mother ship. "Make. It. Count. Sturgess!" he said through clenched teeth.
Tarry black feces exploded from the opening, then streamed from out of the posterior valve on Sturgess's vacc suit. And directly onto the helmet of the cosmonaut behind him. The russkie's laser shot went wide as the dank liquid froze into a solid coating. Sturgess  spun about and fired the grappling gun directly into Boris's chest.

Jock Sturgess...fecal super soldier. The product of a government initiative gone awry. They tried to cure his irritable bowel syndrome using "Serum X" and instead created a monster. But one whose power they could harness. Sturgess travels to a variety of exotic locales, and shits his way to victory. Preferred uniform: flack jacket and kilt.

"Code Brown! I repeat, Code Brown!" shouted the scientist, panic filling his eyes as Sturgess shrugged off the shackles like so much wet Ramen.
from "Deadly Milkshake in Tangiers: A Jock Sturgess Adventure"

"Operation Shitstorm: A Jock Sturgess Tale of Intrigue"
She knew Sturgess's reputation, and had worn a brown raincoat as a precaution.

Years later, after it's all over, the fictional Sturgess writes his fictional autobiography: "Shat My Way to the Top"

Operation Polished Turd: A Jock Sturgess Adventure.

Sturgess's sidekick could be a female CIA agent with no sense of smell. She divines the future by examining the shape, size, and texture and quality of people's turds. A real fecal femme fatale.

Jock Sturgess in Golm Stick Blues.
Brother Scare raises the Golm Stick above his head, advancing on Sturgess. Sturgess wheels about and lifts the back of his kilt. "40 degrees to your left!" shouts Becky from behind the wood pile. Sturgess shifts on his heel and compensates, using raw instinct to further refine the trajectory shift. Brother Scare, now only feet away. But it was too late. "Fraaaaaaaaaaaaapppppppppp!!!"

"Dammit. Sturgess has gone fecal." the General stated. A look of grim realization on his face as he surveyed the carnage through his binocs.

"She thought that the shit on the bathroom floor was the worst it could get. But she was wrong. Dead wrong." Coming this summer...Shitberg, the new Jock Sturgess thriller.

Jock Sturgess vs. The Doomsday Turd.
Jock Sturgess in "The Turd of Damocles"

Jock Sturgess in "The Brown Trouser Protocol"
From the intro:
The panicked voice came over the SAT phone line: "Trouser Brown! Trouser Brown! We have a Trouser Brown!" General Tanner grabbed the receiver. "Initiate containment procedure Rogue Brown Cow! Now!!"

(Outside Trader Joe's, a squad of gay men are selecting pupkins)

Mad Heiress: The crazy-ass process of fly-away bullshit
Mad Heiress: Last week's philosopher kings, reduced to running a game of three-card monte out in the parking lot.
Mad Heiress: Klaus, may I be so bold as to call you Jaguar Klatch?
Mad Heiress: Jocko's rocket ship.

Wonton Justice: A California Coolie Mystery.

Dumbly, like inert stars, we sputtered out.

"Quickly, to the scramjet!" shouted Dr. Go-Johnny from behind the terminal.
Urinal kid leapt up from the floor. Consignment Judy and Senor Prognosticator unclasped their safety harnesses and tumbled onto the athletic mat. The dog with no orifices tried to bark, but could not.

When Bertha turns the handle of her crank shaft, all the howdy dudelick boys come running.

 The Angry Mad Heiress phone app: launch them out of their dilapidated mansions and onto the heads of tax creditors and their ex-husbands.

Mad Heiress: Telling the Foghorn Leghorn Origin Story

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Dear MH: What qualities do you look for in a freelance rooftop sniper?

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