Archive for December, 2019

#Horror #Trump #TrumpyBears

Posted: December 28, 2019 in Uncategorized

Chop It Up

Jeff Prebis


Maybe it was all a bad idea. Maybe it all was a big mistake. I just wanted to get laid.

I looked left and right at my cubicle. The cop was supposed to brush past me and drop the bag of weed on my lap. Cops worked security at the building. They had a regular presence. The exchange was meant to be incognito, off the radar, not caught on camera. That part didn’t work. The camera caught everything. The hairs on the weed were identifiable to the watchers.

The day got off to a bad start I woke up with a sore throat and consequently drank some blue cough syrup that resembled a blue motorcycle. I quit drinking seven months ago and the alcohol in the medicine quickly loosened me up, made me forget about the endless hangover, the mornings vomiting clear liquid, the coughing, and of course the purging. I was woozy, probably should have stayed home, but I had to help Marta.

The weed was pungent. I slipped it under my foot inside my sock, and put my shoe back on. The smell persisted. Walter walked off. I was alone with the weed, and another cop blew by on a clean wind. He glanced in my direction. I ducked down, and peered at the computer screen. I had some cologne in my pants pocket, and I sprayed it.

A cop with a dog stopped at my cubicle. The dog went straight to my leg, to my shoe, and let out a series of low growls. It pawed my shoe, moving my foot with its foot. The cop glared down at me with contempt. My only chance was to run. Marta was worth it. I’d risk everything for her. I couldn’t give this weed up. It was seized by Frenzini’s private collection in a police bust, it was hard for the cop to attain, and consequently I had to pay a hefty tax. Another cop approached me. I sat up and climbed over the wall of my cubicle. These cops were on Frenzin’s payroll. Most cops were. I had to hightail it out before they hurt me. The other cop had been escorted from the sales floor by two other cops. A defeated look was on his face.

I ran out of the large room, down a thin hallway. I reached in my pocket, brought the bag of weed out, and thought about stashing it somewhere. I bumped into a wall. The bag almost fell loose from my hands. I heard cops talking by the exit door. I was trapped, I turned momentarily, and heard more voices descending the stairs behind me. There was another door. It went to a side area with an abundance of trees. I pushed the door open, cold air rushed in, I put the bag in my pocket, and ran right into the hood of a black limousine.

The fender knocked the wind out of me. I struggled to draw in air, my midsection throbbed, and black and white shapes moved before my eyes. Strong hands seized me by my shoulders. I was lifted from the ground. In the air, I glanced down at the ground and I wished I was still on it. I was thrown into the back of the limousine. A white-haired man with a thin white goatee sat with a blanket over his lap. I waited for him to speak.

“The worms will take over the world,” the man said. “You have to check your feces. They will be present in your feces. If you have them, I can’t help you. The world is at a tipping point. It could lean to bad or good depending on decisions made by the citizens. You will live longer if you stop messing with Frenzini’s weed.”

The limo door opened. I was dragged out. The conversation was nebulous to me. The concrete was hard when I hit it. I heard the approach of dogs followed by shouting men. I stood up and kept running. Before I moved five feet, I felt teeth sink into my ankle, and I toppled forward, over the edge of a ravine, and I rolled downhill, clutching the bag of weed and my bottle of cough syrup.

I reached the bottom of the hill. I was covered in mud, smelled like it. A German shepherd was on top of me gnawing at my neck and face, I pushed it away with my foot, tried to kick it away, but it only sunk its teeth into my ankle instead. I cried out in pain, tears fell down my cheeks, and I reached for a weapon of any kind to defend myself with. My belly rumbled and shit cascaded out of me. It was liquid-like, and it ran out of my pants leg. The dog sniffed it, liked it, and started eating my odious ordure. The words of the old man came to mind. The worms would be in my shit. I carefully perused the feces, inspecting it for worms. It was devoid of worms. I didn’t see any. With the dog distracted, I pulled loose from it, and managed to stand. Cops were descending the hill carefully, taking slow steps. They were too slow, they allowed me to stand, and I ran down a trail between pine trees.

The road came into view. I contacted an Uber driver, my location was found through a tracking device in my phone, and I rolled a joint under a willow oak tree. The dead boughs stopped falling snow from hitting my head. A car with a red and blue light pulled onto the road. I couldn’t tell if it was a cop or the Uber driver. The fragrant weed could be smelled through my pants. It was no match for a good sense of smell. I worried about having the magic weed. I worried that I wouldn’t get it to Marta and that she would deny me sex.

The car stopped and I jogged to it. I opened the door after the driver nodded at me. I sat down and shut the door. Next to me on the seat was the head of the cop who gave me the weed. His head had been turned into a bed pan. The top of the skull had been chopped off, the inside of the head was filled with excrement, and shit oozed out of the nostril and mouth, disgusting me to no end. I vomited on the door next to me. My yellow puke dripped down to the floor.

“Give me the weed,” the driver stated. “You are taking the resistance’s greatest weapon to the enemy. I can’t allow it.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about. It was a bag of weed. Why did John have to die? What did he really do?

I picked up the head and tossed it into the front of the car, it struck the driver, and shit spilled out, causing the man to shriek, he tried to wipe the excrement off his clothes, but more spilled out in the process, I pushed the door open, and fell out into the road. I rose back to my feet and ran as hard as I could until I was ensconced in the shadows of trees.


After dusk, I went back to my car. I smoked a large chunk of the weed, a cluster of buds, and drank the rest of the cough syrup. My perspective of reality was altered considerably. I looked around, saw ephemeral shapes that vanished after I registered them, I smelled horrible odors that faded just as quickly, I tasted blood on my lips, I bit my lip, and the blood was soaked up by my tongue.

I drove to Marta’s apartment as she blew up my phone with text messages. The messages kept coming insatiably, I didn’t bother to check them out, I knew she would be disappointed that I smoked most of the weed, and I felt so high that I didn’t care. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t want a drink and could relish my sobriety, but I wasn’t really sober.

I passed cars on the road. For the most part, the snowy night was devoid of cops, minivans and SUVs were the dominant vehicle types of the road. The windshield wipers flipped snowflakes out of the way. I could see my breath in front of my face every time I exhaled. I lit a cigarette, and added smoke to the breath blowing around in the car. Less sober than I realized, I started thinking about the worms, and how many people had them. I looked at faces in other cars, I thought I saw bulges underneath the flesh as if the flesh was merely a mask, and beneath the surface lay a different face, a disgusting face.

I made a few turns casually, without speeding up or slowing down, hands steady on the wheel, turning with care. I reached the parking lot to Marta’s apartment complex. There was an Arby’s next door, the smell of roast beef was strong in the air, my stomach growled when I exited the car, and I considered a walk over to the fast food restaurant. I chose not.

The smell of weed was strong in the air. This was definitely a Frenzini neighborhood. People lit various smoking devices, and inhaled and exhaled smoke in terrific plumes. I coughed and crossed the parking lot to the building. She lived on the third floor, in a thin hall crowded with smokers, I pushed past people who blew smoke in my face, not all of it was weed, there was crack also, another high that Frenzini controlled, he had a lot of friends.

The apartment door, she moved aside mechanically, and allowed me to enter. I leaned forward to kiss her and strangely she didn’t move back. Our lips touched. My tongue came out, explored in a lizard-like fashion, touching her lips which were pressed together. I had to defecate, I gave up on trying to kiss her, and I asked to use the bathroom, she said yes with a stoic voice, and I walked past her.

After a few grunts, the feces hit the water, and I rose from the seat to study it, to determine if any Trump worms were in it. There weren’t any. I breathed a sigh of relief. I wiped, flushed the toilet, and left the bathroom.

Marta had her clothes off. She stood naked in front of me with her long brown hair covering her breasts, reaching down to her abdomen. I exited my outfit in no time, holding the weed in my hand, she took it, and set it on an oak table with a red, white, and blue tablecloth. I moved in to kiss her. She didn’t flinch. Instead, a portion of her face moved like a panel and revealed several worms creeping through the hamburger meat much like maggots, they had heads shaped like Trump, even had patches of rumpled skin that looked like hair combed over. The worms crawled in and out of her brain. Her skull was half-eaten. I screamed in abject horror. A chance glance at her crotch revealed that worms were crawling out of her vagina with the same odd mushroom-shaped heads. I backed up as her hands tried to clasp onto my shoulders.

A door opened. A deafening bang. Marta’s head exploded and worm fragments rained down on me. I saw Frenzini and two of his men enter the apartment. They were dressed in black, had their hair a fierce black color, gelled back, leaving widow’s peaks. The worms crawled on me. Even in pieces, they continued to squirm around. I opened the bag of weed and stuffed buds in my mouth, hoping to hide the evidence of my betrayal. There was a cruel smile on Frenzini’s face. He looked like he intended on having a good time torturing me.

Eating the weed was a really bad idea. My stomach immediately burned, I burped, and a horrible, plant-taste entered my mouth. I hallucinated that Frenzini’s head was a breast with his hair formed into the shape of a nipple. Weird.

“Why did you swallow the weed, thief?” Frenzini said angrily. “You are on a record pace for pissing me off in one day.”

I couldn’t respond. If I opened my mouth, I would vomit up the weed, I was sure. I kept my lips sealed.

“Staple him shut, boys,” Frenzini said. A sick smile formed on his face. His teeth were filthy with tartar creeping up the sides of his front teeth. He looked like he ate blood and meat all day, but it was the natural coloration of his teeth.

One of his men pulled a stapler from his pocket. Before I could move, he stapled my upper lip to my bottom lip, stapled again, again, and again, until four staples sealed my lips. The pain was cringe-worthy, intense, and blood filled my mouth, replacing the agricultural taste of the weed.

Frenzini collected worms off of poor Marta with silver tweezers and deposited them on a petri dish. He brought the dish to the kitchen, a pot was on the burner, and he placed the worms in it. “I love the taste of these nasty little bastards,” he said. “You are a major problem. My cannabis spreads information. People have to know the truth. You stole the truth from their eager minds. Then you ate it. That’s just fucking disgusting.”

I shimmied uncomfortably. My ass was stapled shut. What else could I do? I fidgeted, scratching the bloody areas around the staples on the carpet. Sick to begin with, I was on the brink of imploding. I could feel weed rise into my throat, I couldn’t breathe well, and I choked. My nostrils burned. My head lolled from side to side, there was an intense pain in my abdomen, and I felt a staple rise loose. Liquid shit squeezed out of the opening.

“I’ll let you free yourself,” Frenzini said. “Take this knife.” He handed a jagged dagger to me. I studied it and thought the impossible. I thought about cutting my stomach open and emptying the contents out until the pressure stopped.

I held the knife, looked down at, and wondered if I had the fortitude to cut myself. I didn’t think so. I almost dropped the knife rather than use it, but I held onto it. Frenzini found a plate in the cupboard. He set it down and forked boiled worms onto the plate. He licked his lips. There was a fervent look in his eyes. All sides were crazy these days, left and right, extremism had veered off into commonplace. The fervent Frenzini blew on his worms to cool them.

“If you don’t want to help yourself, I can give you some help,” Frenzini said.

The two men pulled crochet mallets from beneath their dark jackets. The balding one swung his mallet into my stomach. I had a soundless spasm. I couldn’t focus on anything through my tear-filled eyes. Another blow from the mallet. It felt as if my stomach were on fire, the flesh bruised almost instantly, give or take thirty seconds. I felt another staple in my ass rip out of the skin. More liquid trickled through me. It was the mallets or the blade. I chose to take my torture into my own hands. I stabbed the knife into my belly, and cut upward and downward with it, separating flesh, and relieving some of the pressure I felt. Blood and intestines oozed out of me. The deeper I dug, the farther back Frenzini’s men backed. They didn’t want to get gore on their expensive loafers. I couldn’t blame them.

Surprisingly, I felt relief. The pressure inside had subsided considerably. I felt normal, despite the gash I cut into my flesh.

“You made a mistake,” Frenzini said. “I’m going to leave you now. Your life will be short. That’s a nasty gash you have. Maybe you’ll get lucky and live, though.”

Frenzini and his men left me there. Blood and lengths of intestines were on my hands, on the floor. From the wound came worms, the same worms, twisting around each other, forming knots. I felt a bit of the information in my mind. I saw Russians playing with marionette strings, manipulating Trump like a puppet, he danced and cajoled under the command of the strings. The information was overwhelmed by a flood of contradictory information. It was pro-Trump, directed into my mind by the worms. I moved on the floor, struggling to stand while political points of view clashed in my mind. I backed up and bumped the remote control, the television turned on, and more propaganda spewed out. The president, somebody’s president, spoke to a crowd of screaming fans. He pointed at the camera. I felt as though I were zapped with energy. The worms wiggled around my intestines, I dropped the knife, and placed my hands over the wound to stop the flow of blood and innards. I breathed and it hurt. I sighed and it hurt.

A group of men burst into the apartment. They wore black suits, black sunglasses, resembled some kind of government agents plucked from an X-Files episode. Stern expressions graced their faces. Looks of sexual frustration, a little too stern.

“Are you ready? Have you made your decision? It doesn’t matter. Time has come. Walk with us.” one of them said.

I was lifted to my feet. I held onto my stomach, holding my intestines, a few loops dragged on the ground. I was lead out of the apartment to a waiting bus. It was crowded with people, who stared vacantly into space, nodding their heads as if listening intently to profound music. I boarded the bus and sat down.

I felt sickly. I noticed that the occupants of the bus held teddy bears in their hands. I vaguely recalled seeing them on a late night television commercial, just vaguely. I often fell asleep with the television on.

Silently, without a word, a burp, or cough, I reached a voting annex inside an old school. The school had been remodeled into a community center. I hadn’t been there previously. The bus began to unload people under the direction of the men in black.

In single file with the rest of the people, I entered the annex, and was led to a series of voting booths. Understood the magnitude of the situation, I hadn’t planned on voting, I planned on bringing the weed to Marta, and having tremendous sex, now the weight of the world leaned on my shoulders. Two different types of information swirled in my mind. I chose a booth and entered.

There was a screen inside with two names on it. It couldn’t be simpler. I touched the name I wanted to vote for. The annex became silent as if all sound and air were sucked into a vacuum. The silence was thick enough to be a solid, a wall of some kind. I backed out of the booth. The people stared at me with wide eyes, holding their teddy bears, I voted for the other candidate. The people swarmed me with their teddy bears. My hands were occupied with holding my intestines inside my abdomen. I only had my feet to defend myself. My feet weren’t enough.

Now here I lay. They pound me with teddy bears. I don’t know if I made the right decision, but I’m bleeding in numerous places. A Trump supporter seized a loop of my intestine and walked away with it, ripping more lengths of intestine out of me. Things become dark. I feel lightheaded. I…


Posted: December 26, 2019 in Uncategorized

Blue Motorcycle

Jeff Prebis


The line at the bank was excruciatingly long. Olson tapped his foot on the floor while he waited. It was his first check from the telemarketing company he worked at. The old days of being a reporter were over due to the proliferation of blogs and social media, The Houston Chronicle had to cut back, and he was one of the casualties. He still had two books left on his publishing contract, but research on the Micliga cult had been slow and disinteresting to the publishing company, they wanted more details, more work put in, and he had hit a dead end, money was needed, and he found a shitty job to pay the bills. This first check would be sweet.

He quit drinking over a year ago. Every day was a struggle. He took things one day at a time, one minute at a time. This was the first time he had money in months. Finding a job at forty was hard. His career as a journalist had not given him much experience in regular life. He didn’t qualify for most jobs.

His turn came in front of the teller. He set his check down, produced his identification, and signed the check. With a smile on his face, he slid the check to the teller, who took it, and asked how he wanted the cash back. He didn’t care. He just wanted the money. It had been three days since his last cigarette and having one dominated his thoughts. He didn’t think he would make it and robbing a store for cigarettes was out of the question.

The teller counted out the cash. It wasn’t much, three hundred something dollars, but after being broke for so long, it felt good to have any money, and gratefully he took the money and pocketed it. He promised to meet his lady friend, Tameka, at a bar after he went to the bank. They’d talked about dating for a few weeks. They both were broke and waited for their first check. Tameka had more problems than Olson; she was a single mother who had to find ways to make money for her daughter and her.

Olson almost danced to his Cadillac, certainly there was a bounce in his step, he eyed the street for the first store he could find, and located a bodega where he could buy cigarettes, cigarette advertisements were all over the façade. He hopped over the door and into the driver’s seat. He didn’t need the key to turn the car on, and merely twisted the ignition forward. The Cadillac roared to life. He pulled off.


Meeting Tameka at the bar wasn’t a good idea. He’d stayed away from alcohol since he woke up in a psychiatric hospital, strapped down and sedated, and the temptation might prove too great. Still, he was infatuated with Tameka, she was exotic and psychotic, crazy enough to dominate his thoughts, and make him lick his lips while he contemplated fucking her. He walked into the cantina with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Tameka sat at the bar with a blue drink in front of her. A little black straw was in her mouth. Olson licked his lips, hit his cigarette, and exhaled. Tameka wore a white cashmere sweater with her cleavage exposed, a broken heart was tattooed over her breasts, she’d had a hard time in life, diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and unable to keep a job for the most part. The telemarketing company was the first place she’d been accepted at, and managed to work a full two months, she’d helped Olson learn the computer system, he was getting old, and struggled with technology.

Olson sat down next to her, glancing at her cleavage in the process. Life as a recovering alcoholic was hard, and it made finding a woman harder. Tameka was interested in him, but he had to wait until he had money to enjoy some time with her, and now the time had come, he was with her, near her, wanting her, and not even the allure of the alcohol could stop him.

“What kind of drink is that?” Olson asked.

“A blue motorcycle,” Tameka replied. “It’s my favorite drink. I get them and mojitos all the time. You should try one.”

“Uh, no thanks,” Olson said. “I don’t want to go back to the way I was. I’ve come too far.”

“There isn’t much alcohol in it, it tastes really good, try a sip,” Tameka said.

He knew he shouldn’t, but he looked in her dark brown eyes eagerly watching him, and he didn’t want to appear square. There was nothing worse than being square. He accepted the straw and took a sip of the drink. He tasted the alcohol instantly. It tasted great. He hit his cigarette, staring at the bottles around the bar, at the drinks on the counter, he forgot about sex with Tameka, and only thought about more alcohol. When was the last time he’d had a real drink? Five or six months. He was due for a treat. His first check. Money in his pocket. Why not?

“Can I grab one of these?” Olson asked the bartender, who passed by with a couple beers in his hand. He nodded at Olson. “You look beautiful by the way, Tameka.”

He laughed. It was an awkward sort of cackle. A little unsettling to Tameka, who merely smiled and sipped her drink through the straw. He wanted to take her in the bathroom and fuck her until his dick broke. Where did that thought come from? The little sip of alcohol had changed him. He needed to escape before it took over his mind. The bartender returned with his blue motorcycle. His hand shook. His lips quivered. He grasped the glass and took a long drink without using the straw.

In a matter of minutes, he drank three more blue motorcycles and two shots of scotch. The restaurant spun before his eyes. He dropped his cigarette and kept having to pick it back up.

“My sister is having a get together,” Tameka said. “Want to stop by there with me. They’re having jerk chicken Alfredo.”

A woman stared at Olson from across the bar, dark eyes, and dark hair, she looked as though she were in her thirties, and patrolling the bar for men. He winked at her. She nodded toward the restroom. Kissing couples were coming and going from the restrooms. Olson finished his drink and stood up briskly to follow the woman. The alcohol had pushed Tameka right out of his mind. He lit another cigarette while he pursued the woman to the restroom.

He caught up to the woman, smelling the delicious perfume that she wore. Inhaling her perfume made him lick his lips. He pulled her closer to him, touching her cheek, feeling the hair growing in, and stopped completely. Why did it feel as though she shaved her face? He took a good look at her and noticed an Adam’s apple. His face crinkled into a scowl.

“What the fuck!” Olson said.

“What’s wrong? Pull your pants off and I’ll fuck you,” she said.

“You’re a man,” Olson replied. “I thought you were a woman.”

“I like dressing like a woman,” she said. “I like to fuck men with my penis.”

“I think we have a misunderstanding,” Olson said. “I thought you were a woman. Sorry, but I’m not gay.”

Olson turned to walk away while his pride was still intact, but she seized his arm with a large hand, pulled him back, and kissed him. Her five o’clock shadow scratched his face. The wig fell off the man while Olson thrashed to break free of the unwanted kiss. Tameka approached with a furious look on her face. Olson pushed the transgender individual back. Tameka swung a punch, connecting with the cheek of the transgender individual. Olson broke free and moved away with his head spinning.


After throwing up, Olson left the restaurant with Tameka. He drove his Cadillac recklessly with Tameka in the passenger seat. He made turns without signaling. He swerved into other lanes, cutting off cars with drivers who grew angry and honked their horns furiously. He made a few turns and was off the main road, onto side streets with no traffic and specifically no cops. He felt safer, but still had trouble focusing on the world.

Tameka leaned over, put her hand on his thigh, and directed him on where to drive. He could feel her hot breath on the cartilage of his ear. His pants tented up from an erection. He needed to release some of his pent-up frustration. He put his hand on her hand, moving it farther up his thigh until it was on the bulge in his pants, and she squeezed his cock, giving it a slight rub that made the veins bulge out, the pressure to mount. She unzipped his pants, but stopped abruptly. They reached their destination.

Olson pulled to a stop in front of the prosaic ranch home. It was a one story house with rose bushes hiding the front porch. The wood was painted white and the shudders were blue. A woman who resembled Tameka came out of the house with a phone to her ear. Tameka’s phone rang and she answered, nodding for Olson to turn the car off and come with her. He watched Tameka approach her sister with her phone to her ear. Olson fought the urge to throw up. His stomach burned as if acid had been poured down his throat and settled in his stomach. He gagged, but maintained his composure and walked up the yard.

“I’m Joe Olson,” he said to Tameka’s sister.

“I’m Essence,” she replied. She extended her hand for him to shake. Olson took her hand and shook it gently. Her face was beautiful, an older version of her sister’s. Olson tried not to sway in place. Essence invited them in and Olson followed Essence and Tameka inside.

Essence’s husband and her children sat at the table. Essence had two daughters. Each one had their hair up in long braids, and appeared very cheerful. They had the same facial structure as Tameka and Essence. Olson felt out of place as the only white person present, but he was too drunk to really care deeply about it, and his eyes scanned the dining room for something else to drink. He eyed a bottle of wine in the middle of the table. There were half-empty glasses in front of the men and woman. Olson wanted to snatch the glasses and drink the contents in a frenzy.

The table had a few chairs available. Olson didn’t wait for an invitation to sit, he dropped down into a chair without taking his eyes off the bottle of wine, his heart beat faster, and he licked his lips, dreaming of the taste, dreaming of the increase in his buzz.

Tameka sat down beside him, her hand moved to his crotch, and he put his hand on her hand dazedly, while his vision offered tricky images of reality, focusing on one thing was impossible, and his eyes produced doubles for his brain of everyone and everything in sight. Two bottles of wine waited for him to take a drink. A glass was in front of the empty plate in front of him. Thankfully, Essence asked him if he wanted a glass, and he helped himself, pouring the bottle into his glass until it practically overflowed. He rushed the glass down his throat, tilted his head back until the glass was empty, and everyone stared at him.

Essence watched him. A lustful look was in her eyes. Olson tried not to stare, he also tried not spill the wine on his light blue dress shirt, the shirt was a stain magnet, and he held the glass thoroughly to avoid spillage. Everyone sat down at the table. Introductions were made. Olson forgot the names as quickly as they were given. The alcohol had taken control. He needed a cigarette and rose from the table rudely to walk outside. Tameka tried to grab his arm, but he lurched past her while he fumbled through his pocket for a cigarette, and opened the front door, he found a cigarette and closed the door behind him.

After lighting it and taking a long drag, the front door opened and Essence appeared behind him. She smiled. “You are a little old,” she said, “but definitely handsome. Tameka has good taste.” She leaned forward and kissed Olson, who hadn’t exhaled, and he blew smoke into her mouth, which came out her nostrils. Her mouth tasted like strawberry. He touched her light brown cheek, it was smooth to his touch, and he dropped his cigarette. The door opened and they separated.

“I need a drink,” Essence whispered.

“Me too,” Olson said.

Tameka stood in the doorway. “The food is ready,” she said suspiciously. “The timer went off.”

“Okay,” Essence said.


He drifted to sleep during conversation. The jerk chicken Alfredo was as weird as it sounded. He ate it and instantly his stomach felt bad, like a vessel on a turbulent sea. Spicy chicken and a creamy sauce brought him to the brink of vomiting. He woke up with a shudder. Another bottle of wine had been brought to the table and half a glass rested on the table in front of him. He took a drink, discovering that it was warm and he wondered how long he’d been out. Tameka had an angry expression on her face.

“Good of you to wake up,” Essence stated, “the ritual is about to begin.”

Olson raised his eyebrows. What ritual? He’d merely come for dinner. He needed a cigarette, but the urge to purge was greater. “Can I use the restroom?” he asked.

Essence pointed it out and he stood, roamed off in that direction, he heard more about the ritual, and didn’t pay attention to the words. He bumped into the wall, causing a painting to tilt. He was close to vomiting, he found the bathroom, closed the door behind him, and barely made it to the bowl before erupting. His eyes became teary. His eyes burned. The bowl split into two. He emptied the contents of his stomach, wishing that he hadn’t eaten the experimental dish.

The door opened, Essence slipped in, he glanced up and saw two of her, and vomit dripped from his chin. He flushed the toilet and the swirling water made him dizzier. Her hands reached out to him, pulling his pants down, she wore a long dark blue dress with black buttons down the front, which would split the dress in two if unbuttoned, she didn’t bother and rolled her dress up, revealing luscious brown thighs and a bush of pubic hair. He staggered in disbelief, he hadn’t expected this to happen, but his cock was hard, and he went with it when she stuffed his cock inside her.

He pumped in her savagely, it was an awkward position with both of them standing, and he had to pull out, turn her around, lean her over, and attack from the back. Inside her, in the new position, he pushed his cock in and out of her with his hands clenching her shoulders. Someone knocked on the door, which caused him to freeze and grow limp. The bathroom was strangely illuminated. He noticed that now. The light shined down in a green haze. He fiddled with his pants while Essence stood staunchly, refusing to pull her dress down, showing no shame. Olson stumbled forward for the door, which opened to reveal Tameka, who had a disapproving look on her face. She seized Olson by the arm, and dragged him out while Essence finally lowered her dress.

“I shouldn’t let you eat the edibles in the chicken,” Tameka whispered. “You might be having a bad reaction.”

“What was in the chicken?” Olson asked.

“Medical marijuana.”

“Okay.” Olson’s head lolled. He could barely stand up. The optics were weird. The world had a greenish tint, not just the lights in the bathroom. He let Tameka bring him back to his chair and he sat down. The children were gone, perhaps to bed, Olson didn’t know what time it was, and didn’t care. He lifted his glass and drank more wine. He heard some sort of mewling coming from the kitchen. He looked over and a goat was being led into the room by Essence’s husband, Leonard. The goat made noises to indicate it wanted to be let go, the collar on its neck wouldn’t allow it, and it was forced to follow the lead of Leonard. Essence walked into the kitchen, for a few seconds she was out of sight, and then she returned with a shiny machete. She followed Leonard into the dining room. Olson didn’t know what was going on.

Essence handed the machete to Leonard. He took it and licked the edge of the blade, running his tongue across the edge until it bled. He smiled at Olson with blood on his teeth. Olson felt dizzy, sick, and struggled to maintain his balance. Tameka put an arm around his waist to steady him. Leonard raised the machete over his head and swung it down on the neck of the goat, severing its head. The head rolled on the floor to Olson’s feet. Red tubes and red gunk gaped out of the neck. Leonard shoved his hand in the offal and tossed it on the floor. He did the same with the head, eventually pulling out the goat’s brain and taking a large bite out of it. In response, Olson vomited on the floor, green chicken and pasta came up, hit the beige carpet with a slap, and Olson choked on the raw liquid lingering in his throat.

Leonard swung the machete like a light saber, slashing into the torso of the goat, letting entrails fall out, a particularly wide gash caused a baby goat to fall out on the stained carpet, its heart beat, and a high mewling sound came out of it. The women approached the goat, picked up the entrails and wiped the offal on their faces. Olson didn’t budge from where he stood. The room swam in front of his eyes, an ocean of madness, too hard to concentrate on one thing, ripples on the surface of the ocean caused by a phantom wind.

Leonard picked up the head of the goat, he brought it down over his head, and there was a disgusting squishing of flesh, Olson heaved on the floor again, and water in his eyes made the room seem more like liquid. He had enough, he backed out of the room while the stench of blood and offal attacked his senses.  He crossed from the dining room to the living room, to the front door, opened it, and stepped out into the night.

The street was full of dancing people with goat heads on. They frolicked right down the middle of the road, through yards, and up driveways. Olson stood with wide eyes, drinking his beverage. What a strange night?

Olson staggered forward on unsure feet. His head felt like a two ton anvil threatening to crush his shoulders and torso into pulp. He tripped on a tree root in the yard, almost fell, maintained his balance somewhat, and stumbled between dancing lunatics. Someone grabbed his hands, and spun him around in a circle. Insane laughter spouted from the mouth of the goat head. Goat eyes rolled around in the eye sockets. Olson vomited a torrent this time.

He pulled loose, left the dance, tripped and rolled down the yard to the street, his head struck the right front wheel, and he blinked from the impact. He pushed himself to his feet, held onto the Cadillac for support, and stood fully. His fall did nothing to stop the people from dancing. It was some sort of celebration. What if this was how the people celebrated payday? He didn’t really think about it, and kept moving to the driver’s side of the car, intent on getting behind the wheel, and driving away from this crazy street.

Olson fumbled around for his keys. The dancers made goat noises and started fornicating at will, dropping to the ground in pairs, pairs joining into one entity connected by genitals, lost in the throes of passion, lost in their orgiastic pleasure. Olson pulled the door, fell horizontally into the driver’s seat, turned the ignition forward, and shifted into DRIVE without closing the door. His hand pushed down on the gas pedal, and the Cadillac shot forward, swerving through the road, into a yard, and into a house. Olson’s skull cracked against the steering wheel, and he lost consciousness.


Sunlight shined through the windshield on Olson. He could taste blood in his mouth. He opened his eyes, and was blinded by the sun’s rays. He squinted at the car, he lay beneath the steering wheel in an awkward position which left his neck hurting, he struggled to pull himself out of the position, and he fell to his knees on grass. What happened, he wondered, and rubbed his eyes. An intense headache threatened to break his skull in two.

Still squinting at the too bright sun, he dug through his pocket for a cigarette, and found one. The Micliga cult traditionally wore animal heads at their rituals. This much he had found out about the cult. Most of their practices were murky to him. He placed the events of last night on the cult. Tameka, her sister, and Leonard were in the cult, as well as the whole neighborhood, it seemed. He couldn’t have been drunk enough to hallucinate.

Movements stole his attention. He looked around suddenly after noticing movements peripherally. The street was full of people with goat heads on. The madness hadn’t ended. He screamed. The scream made his headache worse. It felt as though brain liquid drained to his throat. He tossed his carcass into the driver’s seat.

Straightened out in the seat, he noticed people getting into their cars. It was roughly eight in the morning and people had to go to work. Olson didn’t, but normal people did, apparently every one normal had a goat head on. With a cigarette lit, he smoked and started the car. It had been on all night, but it worked when he hit REVERSE, and he successfully backed out of the house. The façade fell down when he removed the Cadillac from the equation. He needed another drink to make sense out of the situation. He missed the memo on what appropriate headgear was this morning.

Back on the road, out of the yard, he drove forward as a car with a goat-headed individual beeped the horn at him. He often wondered how many people were a part of the cult, he needed another drink immediately, and he steered back to the restaurant.


Still not sober, but not drunk enough, he pulled into a parking space. He’d yet to see a car with a normal person driving it. Everyone had a goat head on. Men wore suits, shirts and tie, goat heads. Women wore blouses with goat heads. He kept blinking, hoping that it was a side effect of the edibles. He smoked his cigarette, shut the Cadillac door, and walked to the entrance.

A normal man was thrown out of the restaurant by two gruff-speaking men in goat heads. The normal man hit the pavement hands first and cried out. The goat-heads left him there and went back inside without a glance back. Olson staggered, his right shoe was untied, and he tripped on the loose lace, hitting the side of the building, and struggling to maintain his balance.

He regained control of his flailing body, staying on his feet. He held onto the door, opened it, and entered the restaurant. The lighting was dim, but it was clear that everyone was a goat-head. The world had undergone some sort of takeover since last night. It was more than the street, more than a ritual. It appeared to be a movement, a very bizarre one that he couldn’t comprehend.

Olson reached the bar and sat down on a stool. There was no smoking in the restaurant according to a sign displayed, but no one said anything to Olson, they went about restaurant business in their matching goat heads, not paying attention to him despite his normalcy. He wondered what the other normal guy had done to make them kick him out. A bartender with long gray hair dangling from beneath his gray goat head stopped in front of Olson, and Olson ordered three shots of rum and a blue motorcycle. The bartender left him alone to get his drinks.

Olson looked around suspiciously, paranoid thinking, not trusting the current world he was surrounded by, uncomfortable because he stood out blatantly in this goat head world that he couldn’t comprehend. How much did he drink last night? Not enough, it seemed. He put his cigarette out, rubbed his face, closed his eyes, and everything was the same. A newscast was on the television, and the newscasters were goat-heads. What the fuck was happening?

His drinks were set down in front of him. He wasted no time in drinking all three shots, sighing, and taking a sip from the blue motorcycle. With the shots downed, he ordered three more shots, beginning to regain the feeling he grasped last night. No matter how much alcohol he ingested, this weird world wouldn’t change. The goat heads were omnipresent.

A normal woman sat across the bar from him. She had a low cut yellow dress on and tangle of thick brown hair. Her eyes were a dark brown color, she had a round face, beautiful in a dark way, and she stared at him without blinking. They were the only two normal people in the bar.

Olson finished the blue motorcycle, and drank the shots when they were delivered to his spot at the bar. The interior started spinning on its own axis, making him dizzy. He lit a cigarette and ordered a shot of scotch for the woman at the other end of the bar. The bartender delivered it to her, and she smiled back at Olson, who stood on shaky legs, walked across the bar, and sat down next to her.

“I’m Olson,” he said. “Can I buy you another drink?”

“I’m Shannon, I’ll take a blue motorcycle,” she said.

Olson nodded and ordered it. He inhaled his cigarette and smiled at her. Her dark eyes took him in, studied him thoroughly, and she asked him for a cigarette. He handed her one.

A man in a black suit came out of a back room. He had a goat head on of course. His hands were firmly at his sides. He accosted them, “You need to leave. You don’t belong here. The time for your kind has passed.”

“What’s your plan?” Olson asked. “A world takeover? There have to be others like us other there. We aren’t the only ones.”

“They are being hunted,” the suited man said. “Killings will be deemed necessary eventually. For now leave here and wait for your transformation. It may come and you will have no choice but to conform to our way.”

Olson blew his smoke at the man. Shannon touched his arm gently. The look in her eyes indicated that she wanted to leave. Olson shrugged at her. “You are very beautiful,” he said as if he were mesmerized. It wasn’t the best pickup line, but under the circumstances, it seemed to work in this goat head world. “I’m going to get a bottle,” Olson said. “I’m going to drink until the world goes back to normal.”

“Take me with you,” Shannon said.

Olson stood, dug his money out of his pocket, and dropped it on the counter. The bartender counted it. Shannon paid her tab also. The goat heads in the bar were starting to stare and stand up. A rude reception seemed possible. Olson felt a shooting pain in his stomach. He leaned over, and coughed bile out. He hadn’t eaten and the alcohol burned his stomach, acid built up, and his throat burned after the bile rose up. Shannon stood next to him. He took her hand and they left together.


Olson stopped at liquor store. Goat-heads were all over the street. There was a small minority of regular people were inside a pen in the middle of the street. Cars stopped moving. They were parked on the side of the road. Weirder still, the goat-heads were beginning to walk on their hands, resembling goats on all fours.

Olson left Shannon in the car. Nervously, she smoked a cigarette, watching this crazy new world. Olson dropped his cigarette and entered the liquor store, he smelled a nasty odor, like goat excrement, and he saw a pile of shit in the middle of the store. A naked goat-head trotted on all fours down an aisle. Olson lit a cigarette, thinking that if someone could shit in the store, he could smoke without a complaint, and he took some long puffs from the cigarette.

A naked woman with a goat head appeared from another aisle. The male goat-head approached her and started humping her. Paranoia punched Olson. Behind him were more of the goat heads. They stared in awe at the coupling couple. They masturbated, men had their cocks in their hands and women shoved fingers between their legs. They got off on the lewd display of bestial sex in the aisle. Olson shook his head, moving from the perversion, entered the aisle with the scotch, and collected two bottles. There wasn’t anyone manning the register. Consequently, he left the liquor store without paying. He jogged the last steps to the Cadillac and got in.

“What about a motel room?” Shannon said. “We could camp out until the craziness is over.”

“Yeah, we could do that,” Olson said.

Olson pulled out of the parking lot. He checked the mirrors for traffic. The street was devoid of cars, but the street was full of goat-heads. There weren’t any normal people. A cheap motel came into view, and he swerved into the parking lot. Easily, he found a spot and parked. The door to the motel office was open. A normal man lay on the ground in a puddle of blood. Olson hopped out of the Cadillac without opening the door. He held the two bottles of scotch under his left arm. The top was down. He didn’t catch the forecast, but it looked as though rain loomed on the horizon.

Olson opened the door for Shannon and she got out. The temperature dropped significantly since Olson left the liquor store, since he woke up in the Cadillac an hour or so ago, and he tightened the black button up he wore by buttoning a few of the buttons. Shannon crossed her arms and kept her head down. Olson led the way to the façade of the office, past the man dead on the pavement, his body didn’t twitch, there was no sound of breathing, and the pool of blood was placid, undisturbed by the cold wind.

Olson opened a bottle with a struggle and took a long drink. He sighed and his perspective of the world was altered, skewed, this weird world of goat-heads became less horrifying, more comical. He passed the bottle to Shannon. She took a smaller swig, but it was effective, and her gait became a stumble. Olson looked around the office, there was no one at the desk, Facebook was on a computer, no one kept watch over the numerous keys on the wall, and Olson stepped behind the counter, grabbed the key for 6A, he put it in his pocket and walked out with Shannon.

They found the room, and Olson unlocked the door, holding it open for Shannon while he drank from the bottle. Shannon shivered with fear and tears dripped from her eyes in front of Olson. He extended his arm, and she came closer, he kissed her, and set the bottles down on the stand. He pulled her closer to him, put his arms around her, tried to make her feel safe in this crazy, weird world, he leaned her back, she slid her tights down, he held her cold buttocks with the warm palms of his hands, and led her backward, to the bed, and set her down upon it, he slid her tights all the way down. He leaned over her while she unzipped his pants. He reached back and snatched a bottle of scotch, he let scotch pour slowly, softly from the bottle onto her thighs, and he leaned down and licked it off her skin while she quivered with pleasure. He took a sip from the bottle, worked his pants down, and penetrated her with a thrust that made her sigh. He leaned forward, moving his hips, making her squirm, make her moan lightly, finding his way through the tunnel to the light. He leaned the bottle over her mouth and let scotch drip between her lips.

Olson continued his thrusts, put the bottle to his lips a few more times, became increasingly dizzy, and finally reached orgasm with a gasp. Her heart pounded against his chest. His stomach felt like bolts of lightning struck it from different angles, bolts of heinous pain, he wretched stomach acid on the floor, and leaned his dizzy head against a pillow. Shannon spoke to him but he couldn’t hear her, he tuned out the world, and lost consciousness, slipping into a vertiginous dream.


He stirred awake when he heard his phone ringing. His eyes flicked open, the room was spinning, he noticed a shape in the corner of the room, he blinked to gain clearer vision, it was Shannon with a goat head on in the corner, she was still naked, he recognized her by her naked body, he vomited on the bed, right next to his face, he reached around for his ringing phone, found it on the lower part of the bed, and picked it up.

“Hello,” he spat into it.

“Hi,” Tameka said. “I’m in trouble. Come back to my sister’s house and save me. I am going to be sacrificed tonight. You know where to find me.”

The phone hung up. Shannon made a mewling sound. There was a goat dead on the floor with its viscera forming a shape like a pentagram. Olson fumbled around for a cigarette. His stomach cried out for something to coat it. The acid burned his insides viciously. He needed to stop drinking. It was really killing him. He found a cigarette, his pants were still on, hanging around his ankles. He pulled them up, and buttoned them. He lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply with satisfaction. He had to help Tameka. He really liked her. Shannon drifted from the corner of the room, she stood by the circle of viscera, and began wiping the wet blood from the viscera on her breasts, between her legs, and licked it with her tongue coming out of the goat mouth. She mewled, she shook, and orgasmic juice dripped from between her legs. Olson rolled off the bed, stood on unsteady legs that felt like they could give out and drop him on his face. He picked up the remains of the scotch and took a long sip, completely forgetting about quitting, trying to do anything to feel better, drinking more was not the answer, but he didn’t really know the question, he finished the remainder of the scotch, dropped the bottle on the bed, and collected the other one.

He staggered in a drunken stupor to the door. He ignored the mewling, didn’t say a word to Shannon, and opened the door. Outside, on the sidewalk was a goat head. It had the eyes removed. It looked hollow. It was for him. He laughed uncontrollably like a lunatic. He had to laugh in order to not scream. This was too weird.

To his Cadillac, he moved, drinking too much and still laughing. The interior of the Cadillac had shit all over it. He had no choice but to ignore it. He got in and started it without a key, hitting REVERSE and backing out of the spot. Goat-heads appeared and stood in the road looking at him expectantly. The heads nodded at him. He tried not to look at him.

The road was full of marching goat-heads, no cars, and he was able to navigate to the house quicker than a normal day. He hoped Tameka was okay, ignoring the fact she wore a goat head the last time he had seen her. He turned onto the road. It was just as it was last night. Cars drove home from work, people with goat-heads walked dogs. It seemed like a normal neighborhood except for the glaring oddness of the goat-heads. He pulled in front of the house. The front door opened and remained open without anyone peering out. It indicated that he was welcome. He shut off the Cadillac, opened the door, got out, and ascended the hilly yard with the bottle of scotch in his hand.

At the front door he stood, uneasy about the wide open door. He lit a cigarette and paused there for a moment. The house was quiet, an eerie quiet as if everyone were dead. A goat-head popped into the door way. “We were waiting for you,” Essence said. “We have another ritual planned for tonight.”

For a second, he held his ground, but he reconsidered his trepidation, and entered. After trying to learn about the Micliga cult for so long, he finally had the chance to learn more, and he needed to see the next ritual. Once he traversed the threshold, the door closed behind him without being touched.

Everyone sat at the table. Tameka was not in danger. She said hi to him through a goat head. Her voice was calm, even, lacking emotion. Olson tipped the bottle to his lips and took another drink. A plate waited for him in the same spot as the night before. Indeed, everything seemed the same, but the children were not there, they lingered in some other part of the house, and weren’t allowed to participate in the ritual. The jerk Alfredo looked equally as disgusting as the first time it was served.

No one tried to attack him. No one said anything to him, though. He sat there silently, drinking from the bottle of scotch, his head throbbed, and each sip increased the throbbing exponentially, he dug a hangover hole, and couldn’t escape from it. Tomorrow, it would be really bad.

For some reason, he implemented a fork, and scooped some of the jerk Alfredo into his mouth. It had been laced with weed the first time, and the effects were felt, this time he had foresight, and he still ate, chewing the strange-tasting food slowly, it threatened to make him ill, and he struggled to swallow it down.

“Bring the children,” Leonard stated.

Essence left the table, walked into the hallway, a light turned on, Olson heard crying, he squinted as his vision altered, he braced himself for what would happen next, and hit the bottle again for good measure. Olson heard voices in his head. A conversation went on that didn’t include him. The voices argued on whether he should stay or leave, and he interjected that maybe something interesting would happen. The voices became silent, choosing to ignore what he said. His focus on the dining room fluctuated. The glass chandelier blinked, the lights went on and off. His head grew heavy as if his neck couldn’t support it any longer.

Essence returned to the room with the children, they cried and tried to fight free of her, her hands were on the back of their necks, and she directed them on where to walk. Olson sat there stoically, casting a glance or two at Tameka who had no visible reaction beneath her goat head mask. A goat was brought into the room by Leonard, who had stood up while Essence was gone, walked through the kitchen, and vanished into another room. The goat mewled. A rope was around its neck.

The glass candles of the chandelier dimmed, then exploded, and glass shards hit the table. The dining room was plunged into darkness. Olson saw a colorful light, which dominated his sight. A fluorescent yellow light that pulsed with a heartbeat. Olson blinked, but could only see the light. For several seconds, the world was ensconced in that glowing yellow light, then everything returned to darkness, but things were different, the goat heads were gone, Tameka, Essence, and Leonard sat at the table with the children. They ate their food. Olson studied them and there was no evidence that they ever wore the goat heads. He felt strange, doubted his senses, and sat there quietly.

Puzzled, Olson scratched his chin, and touched long hair. He reached up and felt more hair by his eyes. The shape of his face was different, it was heavy also, and an impossible thought struck him. He wore a goat head. He screamed. He tugged on the head with both hands and pulled it off, knocking the bottle over, and dropping the head in the process. His face was slick with goop, and he stared down at the head in horror. He stood, screamed at everyone, and ran for the door, opened it, ran out, and kept screaming. Back into a regular world he ran. He vowed to never drink again.