From the darkest recesses of the twisted minds that bring you the Authors & Dragons podcast come these tales of terror so strange, so shocking, so very very problematic, that reading them could put you on a number of government watchlists.
Be warned! These books are not for the faint of heart or weak of bladder. A mere glimpse inside their pages might give you nightmares. It may cause you to question the life choices that led you to this place. It might even give you… Shingles!
“Lashaunta, I'd like you to meet our dad.”
Lashaunta frowned at him. “A regular picture of health.”
“He looks better after a shower.”
Lashaunta shrugged. “I guess he's better than this tubby piece of shit.” She looked at me and Tommy. “That reminds me. We've got to do something with him. Once this ring comes off, Father Fatty is back in charge.”
That was a good point. I was glad she thought of it.
“We could tie him up in Mom and Dad's closet,” said Tommy.
Lashaunta squeezed her chin fat thoughtfully. “That's not a bad idea. You kids got any rope in this house?”
Tommy grinned. “Sure! There's a rope in the basement. I caught Dad hanging it from a beam the day after Mom left. I asked him what he was doing. He said he was leaving his options open.”
Dad was smart like that.
“Where'd everybody go?” asked Mom, peeling her eyelids apart with her thumbs and index fingers. She scowled when her gaze focused on me. “Oh, it's you. I should have guessed. You know this is just like when I got knocked up by your father. Once you turn up, all the men disappear.” Her shoulders sagged as she started sobbing. “What wouldn't I give for a time machine and a coat hanger.”
“I'm sorry, Mom. I just need you to –”
“That's all you've ever done! Need, need, need! Mommy, Mommy, I need vaccinations! Mommy, Mommy, I need food! Mommy, Mommy, I need books for school! Where does it end? What about my needs?”
“You need to turn around,” I said.
“Ha! Nice try, Ricky. Last time I fell for that one, nine months later the only two men I could get to piss on me were you and the hobo who lived in the dumpster behind the Dairy Queen.”
“Mom, I –”
“So don't you think you're going to get a freebie just because I'm your mother.” Her cheeks puffed out as she burped something up, then she swallowed it back down. “You can pony up a shot of tequila just like anyone else, or you can get the fuck out.”
“Look, Michael. I ain't racist or nothin', but brown people are terrorists, and Jesus is white. Them's just the facts.”
Michael pulled the car over to the side of the road about twenty feet in front of the half-naked terrorist hobo. “Do you have any idea where Jesus was from?”
“Sure,” I said. “He was from Nazareth.”
“And do you know where that is?”
I sighed. “Everybody knows that. That's what they called Nashville back in the ancient times when George Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Constitution and folks talked funny.”
“Look, I don't have time for this. I've been searching for Jesus, and we just found a man fitting his description right down to the cross.”
“That's probably packed with explosives!” I pulled Whitey's gun out of the back of my pants just to be sure it was still there. “You ain't got nothing to lose, on account of you're already dead. But if Muhammad blows me to pieces before I turn American again, I'll die without being right with the Lord!”
“Did someone say the Lord?” said the hobo, suddenly appearing outside my window.
“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” I screamed.
BOOM!
The gun went off in my hand, putting a hole in the hobo's brown chest.
“Cooter!” cried Michael. “You just shot Jesus!”
Wendy frowned and stared at a cockroach on the windowsill. “I heard Burt Fargle beat the shit out of you again.”
I gulped. “You did?”
“It's all he could talk about when I was whackin' him and his friends off behind the bowling alley.”
It was thoughtful of her to stand up for me like that, if not a little bit emasculating. Still, I couldn't help but smile at the thought of it. “Did you whack them hard?”
Wendy stared at me for a second as if I was speaking in mathematical equations, then smiled back. “Yeah, Donny. I whacked them real good.”
“Well don't you worry about me,” I said. “After tomorrow, I'll be whacking them myself.”
“Oh?” Wendy flicked her cigarette butt toward our front yard. “You reckon that's the best way to get them to stop picking on you?”
I nodded. “I can't wait. I'll whack them one by one, two at a time, or even all at once. However they want to come at me. And I'll keep on whacking them until they stop coming.”
Dylan took a knee and smiled sympathetically at him. “I know you younger kids are still too stupid to understand how complicated life can get. We may never truly know why Chris chose to do what he did. I'm guessing he was gay for Skeevy Stevie, but he didn't leave a note. So... Occam's Razor, you know?”
Anna Lee sniffed back some snot and wiped a tear from her eye. “How did he do it?”
“Anna Lee!” I whispered. “You're not supposed to ask about that.”
“It's okay,” said Dylan. “Asking questions is how kids grow out of being little retards.” He stood up to address the rest of the team. “You might as well know anyway, so that no false rumors start spreading. Chris left his cabin while everyone else was asleep, sat back against Shame Rock, and bashed his own face in with a brick over and over again until there was barely anything left of his head.”
Tonya burst into tears. “My mom went the same way!”
“Now now,” said Dylan. “Dry those tears. Did you forget that I said I also have some good news?”
“What is it?” asked Nathan.
“As the more experienced campers here are aware, Chris Simmons was one of the best cooks in cabin C, as well as their top rower. With him gone, we stand a good chance of winning the end-of-summer pizza party!”
“SALT!” I cried. “He still can't breathe. He needs to be in saltwater!”
“Shit!” said James. “What should we do? Should we pee in there some more?”
“What? No! Why would we do that?”
“There's salt in pee, isn't there?”
“Obviously not enough. He's already swimming in pee.”
We ran down the stairs and into the kitchen. Derek's mom was in there washing dishes.
“Mrs. Moore!” I said. “We need some salt.” I thought quickly for something to justify that. “For the French fries.”
“Sure thing, boys. There's a shaker on the table.”
I stared doubtfully at the tiny salt shaker on the kitchen table. “I don't think that's going to be enough salt.”
“Yeah,” said James. “Your fries taste like shit.”
I knew he was only trying to help, but I shot him a stern glare.
Mrs. Moore dropped the dish she was drying. It shattered on the kitchen floor. As if in a trance, she sat down at the table and stared listlessly at the chair across from her. “Is that why David left me for his gay conversion therapist?”
“Mrs. Moore?” I said as sensitively as I could manage. “About that salt? It's really important.”
“There's a canister in the pantry.” She pointed to the pantry, but didn't take her eyes off the empty chair.
“You know how we was talking earlier today about my...”
“About puberty?”
I nodded, reassured that I could trust him. “Is it weird that I haven't grown a wiener yet?”
Mr. Fargus laughed. “Not weird at all. In fact, it would be a lot weirder if you did.”
That was good to know, but it still left me wondering.
“Will I grow one later? Or do some girls just never grow them at all?”
“Most girls don't,” said Mr. Fargus. “That's what makes the girls in this issue so special.” He held up his copy of HustleWhore, featuring a large curly-haired black woman with a wiener that looked like a burden to carry around. If I ever grew one, I hoped it wouldn't be that big.
“Does that mean I'm not special?”
“That's nothing to be ashamed of, Molly. Not everybody can be special. Otherwise, no one would be.”
I tried to wrap my head around that, but it was kind of confusing. “I don't understand.”
Mr. Fargus smiled warmly at me. “Of course you don't. Let's face it. You're not very smart.”
“Wow,” said Dusty. “You know, I didn't think I'd be able to hit the picture from this far away, but damn if I didn't squirt right on the bitch's face.”
“It was quite a shot. Say, are you still going to murder me? I mean, now that we've... you know.”
“Oh yeah, I'm totally going to murder you. But I'm going to have a cigarette first and go get all the coke from the kitchen. You can spend your last few minutes watching gnome jizz drip down your dead mom's face.”
“I'd probably feel a lot worse about that if not for all the cocaine I just ate out of your ass.”
“You heard his story. How we can fight off thirty ninjas with fake guns?”
“Your gun privileges will be restored once you replace all the SpaghettiOs cans you stole from the kitchen, but that's not the point. You were whacking off on the clock while Sergei was attacked.”
“Whacking off?”
“Stroganoff!”
“Forgive me, Commander,” pleaded Levka. “I am weak like sheep's butthole.”
“Do you know why I turned down your hand job offer?”
“You are saving yourself for Jesus?”
The commander sighed. “I was a much younger man when I began dabbling in genetic engineering, driven by a single purpose and passion. But I was careless, and it cost me dearly. I'm going to show you something no living person has ever seen, Levka. I'm going to show you my thing.”
“I have already seen it.”
“I don't think you have.”
“John Carpenter. Is wonderful movie. We have video in – Commander, why you are unzipping your pants?”
“Have you seen a thing like this before?”
Levka gasped. “Dostoevsky! What is that?”
“This? Just a little reminder of why you shouldn't stroganoff at work.”
“Not.. magic...” Bobby was wheezing more heavily now. “I'm a... ghost...”
“Yeah, right.” I waved my hand through his arm, then back and forth through his chest, but I couldn't feel a thing. I was annoyed by this ongoing charade, but I had to admit my curiosity was piqued. “How are you doing that?”
“Just.. shut up... for a second...”
Dad told me that becoming a woman also meant I'd have to shut up when a man told me to, so I obliged. I stood there with my hand in his chest for a moment while he wheezed harder and harder. Then, just when it occurred to me that he might be suffering from a severe asthma attack, he started wheezing normally again.
“You can... remove... your hand now.”
Wondering what that was supposed to have accomplished, I pulled my hand out of his chest and took a step back. When I looked down at my feet, I noticed the top of my left shoe was covered in some kind of sticky white fluid. It was milkier-looking than bird shit, but thicker than actual milk.
“What is that?” I wondered aloud.
“Ectoplasm!” he blurted out, his eyes suspiciously wide with panic. Then again, his eyes always looked like that. “It's a... ghost thing.”
Ectoplasm.. How do I know that word?
Suddenly, I remembered. Dad showed us this movie once about four men who shot a woman with lasers for mouthing off. I also recalled that there were ghosts in that movie.
Bobby was telling the truth!
“You really are a ghost!”
“Well, well, well,” said Mr. Henry, tucking his thumbs under his suspenders. “What have we here? You're Bill Meyer's boy, ain't you?”
I nodded. “My name's Dougie.”
Mr. Henry squinted at the gas pump. “Your daddy owes me $18.74 for that gas he just drove off with.”
“He's good for it,” I assured him. “He's due for a paycheck next time he gets a job.”
“Oh, I think you can work it off just fine...with your mouth.”
“You want me to sing for you?”
Mr. Henry laughed. “You're gonna do a lot more than sing, boy. You're gonna squeal like a sow with a cattle prod shoved up her twat.”
I thought for a moment about what that might sound like, and I wasn't quite sure my voice had the range to pull it off.
“I reckon I can try. If I do good, is there any chance you'll throw in a hot dog?”
Mr. Henry's suspenders snapped against his chest as he let them go to unzip his pants. “Oh, believe me, son. You're gonna take all the wiener I can shove down your throat. I just hope you don't mind it tasting a little like piss.”
That seemed like an unnecessarily honest self-critique of his wares, but I ain't had nothing to eat since yesterday when Paw and I finished off what was left of that dog he hit with his truck last week.
“You'd better get that limp dick of yours up and running right now, Thomas. Or I swear to God, I'll rip off your balls and suck out your jizz straight from the source.”
“There! Look!” said Dad, his voice filled with panic. “It's getting hard now, see? Oh God, Cynthia! Oooh! Less teeth, more tongue. There it is. Yes, yes. Wait! Can I rub a slice of ham on your tits while you slap me in the face? No, never mind. Too late. Here it comes. Here... it... Ugh.”
Dad finally quieted down while I flipped through the channels for something to watch. I eventually settled on America's Most Shameless Whores Do Anything To Be On TV. I didn't always understand what was happening on that show, but sometimes they had animals on. Those were my favorite episodes. One time they had a ferret. It was so cute! If I had a ferret, I'd name it Slinky, and I'd never ever put it up my butthole.
“The J in my language is pronounced as you would an H,” he explained.
“I apologize, Mr. Hoe.”
He sighed. “The other J. Never mind. My name is Navajo Joe. I was named after Burt Reynolds, a legend among our people. You can call me Joe.”
“My name's Deuce.”
“Deuce, Son of White Whore. You are pure of heart and empty of head. I shall share with you the ancient wisdom of my people.”
“Terrific!” I said. “Thanks! That sure does mean a –”
He raised his right hand to silence me, then spoke the ancient wisdom of his people, words I'll never forget. “You are what you eat.”
In all my life, I'd never thought about things that way before. I took a moment to wrap my mind around it before speaking again.
“That sure was profound, Mr. Hoho. But it ain't exactly what I came here for.”
“A penny saved is a penny earned,” he responded. “A rolling stone gathers no moss. One in the hand is worth two in the bush.”
I'd overheard my mom say something like that last one, only it was the other way around.
“Are you Vonda?” he asked Vonda.
“That depends. Are you a cop?”
“Yes.” Officer Conner drew his gun.
POW! POW! POW! POW! POW! POW! Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
There was barely anything left of Vonda's face as she collapsed to the floor.
“Oh no!” I cried. Now how was I going to find a whore who dropped out of med school?
Officer Conner whirled around and aimed his gun at me.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
“Shit,” he said, then holstered his gun. “Say, little girl. Did you happen to see what just happened?”
I nodded.
“I got confused,” he explained. “Her tits looked like targets. It could have happened to anyone.”
I almost asked him why he shot her in the face so many times, but my aim wasn't all that great either.
“Would you like to buy a match?”
“You think we should burn the place down?” Officer Conner thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “Hello Titty is too important to the community. Give me that gun you're holding. I'll put it in her hand and write this up as a suicide.”
“It's not your fault, honey. Some folks are just queer, and that ain't something you can fix overnight. It takes years of prayer, self-loathing, and conversion therapy. But the first step is admitting he has a problem. If you want to save your friend from eternal damnation, my advice is to start shaming him as soon as possible.” She reached under the counter again, then handed me a book.
I accepted it and read the cover aloud. “1,001 Gay Slurs & Insults?”
Miss Vonda smiled. “Try some of those on him. They worked on my cousin, Quinton.”
“I don't have money to pay for this.”
She shrugged. “Keep it. I don't need it no more since Quinton jumped off a bridge.”
Dad barely glanced at it as he stepped around the puddles toward the bathroom. He poked his head inside, then looked at me. “Emma, where's Rosemary?”
“I told you. She climbed out the window. But that's not what I wanted to –”
“This bathroom don't got no fuckin' window,” said Dad. “Where's your friend?”
My heart skipped a beat. Could it really be true? I didn't want to be presumptuous so early in our relationship, but could Jolene and I actually be... friends?
“Emma!” shouted Dad. “Where the fuck is she?”
I smiled at him. “That's what I been trying to tell you. She's in here.”
“Jesus Fuckin' Christ. Please tell me you didn't put that little girl's head in the microwave.”
“Ew,” I said. “Why would I do that? It probably wouldn't fit in there anyway, on account of...” Rather than tell him, I opened the door so he could see for himself. “Ta-da!”
Dad shook his head. “I should have sold you when I got the offer, but I reckoned you'd eventually grow out of this ugly phase. That's five bucks I'll never see again.”
“You stupid, worm-brained, ugly pieces of shit,” said Professor Snipe, my potions teacher, when Gingerballs and I handed in our first assignment. “You call this a White Russian? It doesn't even have any milk in it!”
“You didn't give us any milk,” I said. “We did the best with what we had available.”
“We did the best with what we had available,” Professor Snipe repeated in a mocking tone. “Hormona's drink had milk in it.”
“That's not fair!” said Gingerballs. “She's lactating.”
“I am not interested in your excuses. Fifty points to House Shitheads!”
Gingerballs gasped. “What? Why?”
“Because fuck you, that's why! Now, both of you get out of my classroom. I'm not drunk enough to bear the sight of you.”
“Nice going, Henry,” said Blondie Bitchface, Snipe's pet, as he poured vodka into his glass. “You suck, and your family's dead.”
The whole class shared a good hard laugh. Even Professor Snipe choked on the Bloody Mary he was drinking from his Advanced Potions class.
“Nice one, Blondie,” he said. “Fifty more points to House Shitheads.”
“Sorry,” I said, then whispered, “Where did you get a jar of horse semen?”
“I work part time as a horse masturbator at my uncle's ranch. From time to time, I skim a little off the top.”
“Is horse semen really a proper substitute for mayonnaise, though?”
“That all depends on what you want to use it for. Personally, I prefer the taste and consistency, and it does a far superior job of holding my sandwich together.”
He'd put forth a solid presentation, so I felt bad for not supporting his business venture.
“I'm sorry, Ronnie. If this was for me, I'd happily give it a try. But this is a gift for someone else, and I'm not even sure what he wants to do with it.”
“If he wants to impregnate a horse, I got some bad fuckin' news for him. Mayonnaise ain't gonna get the job done. You can pump quart after quart of that shit up in there, and you won't never make a baby horse. Believe me, I've tried.”
“Whoa!” I said. “What is all this stuff?”
Dad smiled. “I call it an Augmented Intelligence Delivery System, or AIDS for short.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“With the simple turn of this dial, I can imbue these two cockroaches with as much intelligence as I desire. It is my hypothesis that a Level 1 enhancement should suffice to make them intelligent enough to follow simple commands but stupid enough to remain subservient.”
“What will happen if you turn it up to 10?”
Dad shrugged. “Goodness only knows. Their tiny insect heads may explode, or they may gain near godlike intelligence. That could potentially be extremely dangerous.”
“I'll say. It seems a little irresponsible to have the dial able to go that high.”
“Fear not, Danny. Nothing will go wrong as long as we advance in cool-headed logical steps.”
“That all sounds really cool,” I said. “But do you think it's wise to mess around with nature like this? It almost seems like you're trying to play God.”
Dad laughed. “You watch too many science fiction movies. No one's playing God. That's absurd. Now, stand back while I grant Adam and Eve here the gift of AIDS.”
Another shot rang out, then another. Before long, it sounded like a bag of microwave popcorn at the three-minute mark. But instead of exploding corn kernels, they were the heads of our friends and neighbors. I suppose Dad and Reverend Davis weren't the only ones having trouble controlling themselves.
“Hassan!” cried the naked, brown-skinned man, number 22, about ten feet away from us over the headless body of the naked brown-skinned boy. “NOOO!”
“Hey Saddam!” snapped Dad. “You mind keeping it down over there? Some of us are trying to piss in a bucket.”
The brown-skinned man scowled at Dad. “My name is Ahmad. These monsters killed my boy.”
Dad sighed. “Don't take it so hard. The cops was gonna do that sooner or later anyway.”
“I suppose you are right. Hassan is in a better place now.”
Dad glanced back at the dead kid. “From the looks of it, he's in a lot of places.”
“It's not just about the convention. The truth is, I've been lonely ever since I splashed acid on my wife's face. I've worked hard all my life and always tried my best to be a good person. I deserve somebody I'm not repulsed by to put my dick in.”
A thought suddenly occurred to me. I was a little nervous about sharing it because it was probably stupid. But Mr. Wright was such a nice guy, and it broke my heart to see him in so much pain. Stupid or not, I owed it to him to share my idea.
“Have you considered a woman who's... not dead?”
He smiled sympathetically at me. “Thank you, but my dick retracts into my body like a dog's every time I look at you.”
I laughed. “You're so funny, Mr. Wright. I wasn't talking about me. But I think I know a lady who would be perfect for you. She's pretty, she wears fancy clothes, and she even keeps taffy in her uterus.”
Mr. Wright scratched the stubble on his chin. “I do like taffy.”
“You have one more wish,” he said. “You'd better make it a good one.”
He was right. I'd have to put a little more thought into this one. Like Dad said, our whole life was about to change. Whether it changed for better or for worse would largely depend on how I used this final wish. Then I remembered something else Dad said a little while earlier.
“I know what I want to wish for!” I blurted out.
“Great,” said the genie. “Let's get this over with. What do you want?”
“I can't remember the exact word. It had something to do with Ireland.”
“Whiskey?”
I shook my head. “No, I think it was a person.”
“A man shitfaced on whiskey?”
“I don't think so. Dad said it was a mythological creature.”
“An Irishman not shitfaced on whiskey?”
And just like that, it hit me. “I remember now. A lepercorn!”
Dad smiled at me, his eyes as warm as the darkening stain on his crotch. “Anything for my little –” His smile disappeared when he saw Wendy get out of the car. “When the fuck did you grow a big black dick?”
When I turned to see what he was referring to, I was also taken by surprise for a second by the appendage dangling out from under her skirt. Then I realized what I was looking at and laughed.
“Jeez, Dad! Don't be a racist. That's just an umbilical cord.”
“Oh shit, that reminds me,” said Wendy as she walked briskly toward the front door. “Can one of y'all grab the kid out of the back seat? I got to go try and shit out this placenta so we can have supper.”
“It is an honor and a privilege to serve as president of this Homo Ass., and I swear to uphold all its covenants and bylaws to the best of my ability. I want you all to know that my Homo Ass. is a place where all are welcome. I firmly believe that in order for this community to thrive, all voices must be heard, so don't hold your tongue. Everyone's tongue has a place in my Homo Ass., and I look forward to answering all your questions.”
“I got a question,” said Roger Milton, the old guy who hangs around outside my school.
“Please, Roger,” said Dad. “I know I said everyone's tongue is welcome. But if you want to speak, I must insist that you first put your hand up in my Homo Ass.”
“Mephistopheles, is it?” said Dad.
“Yes, sir.”
“What, exactly, are your intentions with our daughter?”
Oh no! I didn't mean for him to be put on the spot like this.
“Dad!” I said. “You don't have to interrogate him like he's some kind of criminal.”
“It is quite all right,” said Fisty. He smiled at my dad. “My intention is to feast on your daughter's soul. Once it has ripened, of course.”
Dad rubbed the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “Feast on her soul, huh? What is that? Like, eatin' pussy?”
“DAD!”
He chuckled. “You wanna feast on my wife's soul? It's plenty ripe. I can smell it from way over here.”
Mom scoffed. “Oh, Ed!”
My cheeks felt like they were on fire. I must have been as red as Fisty.
“Stop it!” I cried. “You're embarrassing me!”
When I got about a block away from Hello Titty, I started to feel a little better about things. Dad sure picked the right place. There appeared to be a thriving market for buying women on the corner outside the store. Some of them were even adults. If these women were selling themselves to men voluntarily, it was a good sign that the men buying them probably weren't too sketchy.
Confident that Mom would be going to a loving home, I rolled her up to the corner.
“Hey there, big boy,” said a friendly woman in a leopard print dress three sizes too small for her. “I see you did a number on this one. Are you looking to replace her?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “I'm looking to sell her.”
“You look a little young to be a pimp. Where'd you find this twitchy freak anyway?”
“She's my mom. I'm trying to sell her for a case of beer.”
“That's some cold shit,” said the woman. “I'm Tammi with an I.”
“I'm Jack with two eyes.” I really wanted to know what was under her patch, but it felt rude to ask even if she had already brought it up.
Audio collection, Vol 1
Audio collection, Vol 3
Audio collection, Vol 2
Audio collection, Vol 4
