Arthur Graham > Recent Status Updates

Judge Santiago Burdon at Horror Sleaze Trash

Krystoffer Beej Plutin knocked back another shot of rye and tried to focus his swimming brain on the subject at hand: writing.

"OH MY GOD," he screamed, "FUCKING ZOMBIES!!!"

Face to facefuck with the awful remnants of the head of German Expressionist filmmaker F.W. Murnau after first the Zeena Shreck treatment and then Alex S. Johnson arriving a few years later with "Bring Me the Shrunken Head of Some Motherfucker," not published in Horror Sleaze Trash due to prior copyright claim.

His soul dragged at the rim of his flesh. Joey wished he could speak, but his mouth had been sealed over. He struggled to move but found himself frozen. Even his inner voice had been smeared across the inside of his skull and silenced forever.

"Your suffering will be legen—" began the one known as the Hellpriest.

"Let's hear that again, mate."

Tony Iommi looked up from his guitar. Ozzy had that frenzied expression again, which the guitarist knew from many a bleary-eyed night watching his own face melt in the mirror. The expression was prelude to many a bad decision—hotel rooms smashed beyond recognition, questionable acts performed on groupies, the rapid inhalation of many an item never meant for ingestion of any kind.

The rain had the sour, bloody taste of regretted dental procedures, splattering against the rainbow- slicked streets of Milan. Another night, another giallo brewing, though this one with a distinct...flavor. Not the usual spice of psychosexual deviancy, but something far more...unsettling.

Reynaldo, the World's Smolest Circus Bear, dropped through the ceiling in a shower of plaster flakes and sound-buffering tiles. Seated astride a unicycle, he was juggling five chainsaws and already growling heavily.

As they crossed the event horizon, reality shifted. The laws of physics twisted like a knife, and suddenly they were surrounded by an infinite expanse of pie—cherry, apple, blueberry— stretching as far as their instruments could detect. Entire galaxies made of custard swirled around newborn stars of molten caramel. Nebulae of whipped cream dotted the cosmic landscape.

"Oh it's nothin', just a little bit of fun and play with the puddin' pops doncha know."

Special Agent Kandy Fontaine shook her head with vehemence. "I just can't believe it. I grew up with Dr. Huxtable. He's an icon of my childhood. Showed us all that a..."

The Big Top loomed against the bruised, pre-storm sky like a cancerous growth, its garish colors somehow muted by the encroaching darkness. Inside, the air thrummed with a discordant symphony—the wheezing calliope struggling to maintain a semblance of cheer, the hushed whispers of the gathered throng, and the barely perceptible thrum emanating from beneath the center ring.

"Something's emerging," Cherrypop said, her voice tight with dread and anticipation.

By now the story is all over the press. How I killed an innocent man in cold blood, dispatched him in the night with an axe, chopped his body up and buried it beneath the floorboards.

You may think me mad. You may also believe that like some unhinged narrator out of Poe, I did this heinous act because his pale blue eye incited me.

It wasn't long before the transformations began. Little flickers at first. A twitch in the eye, a thickening of the skin, a sudden and inexplicable craving for raw fish and depleted uranium.

Through the pristine halls of Stockholm's Nobel Institute, Doctor Marcus Gelato moved with careful, measured steps. His waffle cone cranium gleamed under the chandelier lights, rivulets of vanilla slowly trickling down his sugar-latticed skull. The condition that had once marked him as an outcast—Cranial Gelatus Syndrome—would today be recognized alongside humanity's greatest achievements.

Squatting, Dr. Kandy Fontaine adjusted her black stockings and closed her sterile white lab coat over her jutting, dripping nudity. The pile of gutted TV's rose on all sides of the capacious warehouse as monitors fed back her image on video screens.

"Royal shitmix, the Goddess is displeased!" She rapidly undid the Princess from her bonds. "You must use the Royal Pussy Power now!"

The wizard arrived Tuesday with the new tide. That is to say, something floated in: a medley of zigzags and straight lines, vaguely coffin-shaped.

He smiled, and the universe seemed to smile with him. Then it frowned, studied the situation, did some quick calculations and smiled again. Alternatively, the black acid had begun to kick in, because the moon was dripping gore that slid down the white tile matrix surrounding the pool, crawled up naked thighs and planted its crimson fingers inside the girls, one by one.

Joe's cybernetic hand twitched, sending sparks of pain up his arm where flesh met metal. The implant had been acting strange lately, picking up phantom frequencies, whispering things in the dead of night. Sometimes he caught himself having conversations with it, his organic fingers tracing the chrome joints while the artificial ones spelled out messages in a sign language he never learned.

Krystoffer Beej Plutin knocked back another shot of rye and tried to focus his swimming brain on the subject at hand: writing.

Alex S. Johnson at Horror Sleaze Trash

“That’s what it’s all about, in the end...fuckin’ pussy. I’ll drink to that.”

Dick didn’t say he went to Community College for two semesters. He didn’t want to pick up an on-set nickname like College Boy, or The Professor, which is like being known as Short-Eyes, or Petunia, in prison.

Casey Renee Kiser at Horror Sleaze Trash

Luz, the receptionist at Project X, called early the next morning and startled him awake up. “Rise and shine, Dick honey. You’re on for Milking Motorcycle Mamas #51. Bring valid motorcycle license, recent AIDS test and milk-proof motorcycle goggles.” She gave him an address in Tarzana.

“Uh...I don’t have a motorcycle license, Luz. Is that a problem?”

The term money shot is not merely picturesque. It is exact and technical. No money shot equals no porn equals no money equals no porn. Money shots are what make porno real. Proof that the hardcore sex happened.

There’s only one way to go, where sex between human beings is concerned. That one way is really two ways: in and out. In the porn biz, it’s three ways: in and out and on and on and on.