Yes, I’m reopening this bitch up, but I am changing shit. Now if you want to submit a story you can post it yourself. Just register an account and submit your story. If I like it I will publish it, if not I’ll just delete the fucker. So give me some new submissions to laugh at.

All you jackasses who submited shit while the site was closed are not getting a fucking responce. So stop sending me emails if you are too stupid to fucking read.

Go check out my new movie review blog at horrorslut.com.

It must have went in through my ear while I was sleeping. It’s the only explanation I can think of.

Almost immediately it started re-arranging neural pathways and short circuiting my thinking patterns. Concentration and memory were the first to go, then coordination, clear speech, and just about anything else the little bastard could sink it’s claws into.

Initially I could ward it off a little, but one by one my defenses fell. Drugs, alcohol, sex, even books, they all stopped working until it was just me and the little fucker running wild through my head.
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Some wounds still seep. As fresh today as they were upon first infliction. Lilith remembered that phone call four years ago.
“Can you come to Florida?” he asked. “I really miss you.”
And so, she packed the clothes she would need for a week in the sun and drove like a horny bat out of hell to be with him. Their food was delivered. The clothing remained optional. The sex was tender, urgent, passionate, rough, non-stop, and satisfying. Their talks were of the same merit. Emotions and confidences were shared and, in her mind, bridges built. A deeper intimacy established. A love forged.
On the morning of her departure, they made love and, as she packed to leave, he said: “I have something I need to ask you.”
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I like to hear babies scream.

I do not mean the sort of whiny annoying scream they gurgle when they want their diapers changing or want to greedily suckle on their mother’s engorged breast. No I mean an agonizing, mind-piercing wonderful, makes you feel good to be alive scream. The sort of scream generated by an electric carving knife slicing through their powder fresh squishy baby flesh until one of their perfectly formed legs is completely off. It never fails to both amuse and delight me.
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He lay next to her naked. She was on her back as he spooned her, his fingers caressing her cold, dry, pussy lips. It had been a long time since she was able to get wet, so he kept a jar of Vaseline on the night stand next to her. He reached across her to it, his eyes never leaving hers, and dipped his fingers in, scooping out just enough to get things rolling. He had done this many times. So much so, the very act itself had become instinctual, just one fluid motion of automatic poetry.
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A leg of white light painted over a sign reading “STORAGE UNIT 8U.” Serge pointed his flashlight at the keyhole and unlocked the door. He opened it just enough that he could slide under. The door slid shut with a hiss.
The light soaked the stacks of boxes in thick, uric light. Soily, dry clothing exvaginated the from the water-scarred bellies of many of the mouldering boxes. The sole window was to be found on the door and covered by newspaper, absorbing the outside light.
Serge sat himself on a throne of cardboard boxes. From the floor he found a cracked shard of mirror no bigger than a tortilla chip, and with this he examined himself. His face had developed a moon-shaped pitting around his cheekbones
The mirror, falling, sparked into petals of ice.
For the first time, he lit a cigarette guiltlessly. His features washed out of the darkness in the fire’s yellow light. In the darkness, his lit cigarette laxed. Blue light washed out from his cellular phone and over his face.
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She sits idley with needles in her finger tips, attached ever so slightly with thumbscrews in her cervix. His gentle touch is like a hyena and his laugh like a scapegoat. She always said that he was his “one and never”. This tale of blasphemy isn’t the only sacrament that his head can come up with. He has many only mingling tidings of joy for his little gilded lily lover.Her skin soft and pale, like a rich bitch cum screw. He looks into her intoxicated eyes like a witch finding solace in tonights red room. He throws pillow feathers on her carcass like pubescent girls at four-AM slumber parties. The coffee pot burns to the touch like animals in heat.
“I denounce this rape” implodes Jeremiah all over the girls distilled lips.
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The room grayed as the lights turned off. The overhead projector stamped a black square on the wall that lasted for fifteen seconds until at long last, the phrase “INEFFECIENT OUTPUT SOLUTIONS” pulled in from the right hand side.
“Well, we’re going to start off today with a little notation from our old friend Atlas…” Began Schmidt.
“Aren’t we going to wait for Mr. Oran?” Asked a reasonable voice.
“Is he alright? Did he get out of surgery okay last Wednesday?” Asked a concerned voice.
Schmidt removed his glasses and wiped the lenses on his shirt. “Well Mr. Oran isn’t here, and he would want me to get things started on time.”
“No, I’m here” answered a clean, stony voice. Closing the door behind him, Mr. Oran marched into the center of the projection. Little neon words trickled down the front of his jacket. “Turn this off” he said, flopping his hands disdainfully.”
“What are you doing?” Schmidt asked woefully. “I’m in the middle of addressing a problem which concerns-”
Oran ignored him and instead pointed to the woman nearest the lightswitch. “You, you, turn these lights on. Somebody open those blinds!”
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The problem is Qadir. The problem is Qadir trying to get through customs. The problem with Qadir trying to get through customs is they know. They know he’s smuggling.

They are Otis and Charles. The agents. The agents in charge of kidnapping and molesting travelers. Only, when agents do these things it’s called “detaining and searching.” Qadir, he doesn’t care if they molest him, so long as they stop short of molesting his stomach.

Charles and Otis, they don’t care that he’s trying to bring drugs into their country. They just want some. Qadir, for his part, maintains his innocence.

“We’re not in the business of ‘no,’ buddy.” A series of punches and kicks emphasize their point. He still won’t give up the goods.

That’s because the goods are packed away. Away in plastic baggies. Plastic baggies in his stomach. In his stomach, rupturing at the steel-toed epicenter. Epicenter of pain. Cocaine flooding now, larger and larger ripple-waves of pure shit flooding Qadir’s system. His system breaking down.
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