Folded Away

I was on the 3^rd hole, playing alone, when I prepared to take my next shot. My foot perched in something soggy, and next thing I know, I’m falling into a hole on the green. My legs went straight in, I gasped in shock. Where had this bog come from? What was it doing here?

I’m up to my neck in water. This secret puddle had caught me by surprise. Before you know it, I’m doggy-paddling for my life. WTF! It was then, in this surreptitious little hollow underneath the earth, that I realised that I wasn’t alone.

There was a woman in there, a strange alien woman with an over-wide smile. If not for the smile, I would have been scared. The fact that something existed in here was frightening. She had been born there and she lived there, a secluded hush-hush life form who had seen nothing but the 3^rd hole lawn all of her existence. Age? Hard to say. I reckon about mid-twenties. But she wasn’t human, so I couldn’t approximate. A mermaid?

I climbed out, and pulled her out too. Her smile was so infectious, so endearing, that I fell in love with her instantly, at the drop of a hat. I put her on the back of my bike. We rode through the city blocks, sniffing their pheromones, showing her a different life, smelling street food and pollution and fountains. She talked to me in a language I understood perfectly, she said that she has always known that someone would come. She said that her name was Count Etna.

It was wonderful, with an alien in the city. Magical. But soon she started to suffer from dehydration, and I realised with dread to approaching raw fear that we’d journeyed too far away from her home. And people were staring.

A gang accosted me. They said that they were going to take my newfound bestie ‘up the arse’. They were from a clique named ‘The Stuff’, and they ran things around the neighbourhood. They were a violent and harmful and lethal mob. When one of them put their hands on my darling Count Etna, I grew a pair and started calling them all bullsh*tters.

“Youse are nothing but bullsh*tters! Leave us alone. Or do what you’ve got to do!”

My threats withered their composure. Stand up to bullies and they shrink. But the leader exposed his already-hard member and threatened to rape her. They’d narrowed us into a dark corner.

I stuffed Count Etna into my caddy bag. Her jelly-ish flesh fitted in with quite a struggle, but it was the only safety I could afford her. Then I held the bag close to my chest, and nutted the leader of the mob. As I ran away, I heard Etna squealing inside the bag. By the time I got back to the golf course, and to the bog where she belonged, she was stiff, like an old porno magazine. I tried peeling her limbs away from each other, she was such a delicately small bundle, so balmy and breakable, and it hurt her every time I touched.

“I’m not going to make it,” she said. “But thank you.”

I slipped her body back into the hole, weeping. Her family came up to claim her. They were crying too. But they were smiling like Etna had also.

                        © Zombie Publications 2025

Bad Idea

Greetings again man. All is well in the Land Of Donegan. I’m still clean, I’m still fighting fit, I’m still all well. One or two temptations creeping in, but nothing unmanageable. I thought to myself this morning: Just a nice little big fat stripe of a line, and a bonk-busting scene by Tommy Thrillbigger; but, alas, the temptation faded. To be honest, the notion of doing drugs and watching porn is seeming like a very bad idea. I can’t express just how bad of an idea. Just a wrong one, plain and simple. A disproportionately wrong one, as if, like, there’s some Scale of Bad Ideas in Life, and this one tops the list. I can think of nothing worse. Which is a good thing. For years I’ve been asking God to remove the desire. Please help me not want to use! Finally, I think He has answered.

The cut-down drinking is going well. Don’t get me wrong, it’s barely two pm and I’ve had five pints in all, but they are in the pub, reading a paper. I’m not guzzling tinnies back at home, and I won’t be buying any Karpackies on the way back either. Those Karpackies, I swear, they’re so addictive, but they catch up with you, being 9.0% and all. Karpackies.

I shared about my spirits in a Positive Thoughts therapy group yesterday. It didn’t go down all too well. No one understands. Nobody ‘gets it’. Oh, poor me, poor me, pour me another one, I’ve got presences all around me…who cares!? The reality is that nobody else is out there who I can relate to. They do my head in so much, but they are not as bad as the voices. The voices are unreasonably relentless, they’re impossible to cope with, I can’t put myself back there, in amidst that motley bunch!

On a plus point, my new girl Nicole has invited me to a Manchester Church on Sunday to hear from the famous author Barry Woodward. I’ve read his anthology book, it was good, so I’ll be looking forward to that. Nicole is a sister in Christ, so thumbs-up all around. We had a nice chat after Positive Thoughts. She told me about evidence of the Bible in YouTube documentaries. I call YouTube AdTube from now on. I mean, adverts before and after your song is excusable, but halfway through the song? Give me a break dude. That crap is unforgiveable. And sometimes the ads are longer than the song.

Yeah, so all well. I’ve been thinking of buying a tracksuit, or saving up for a laptop, or enjoying fine cuisine or something. I’ve got a few more quid than is per usual in my pocket, because I’m not wasting it on the coca. That coca is insane, you know. It’s never enuff like. There’s no amount that would suffice. So expensive. It really is a rich man’s drug. I hope I won’t be going back to it anytime soon. What a waste of doe.

 

Easy On The Drink

I’m good, I’m sound, I’m okay. Nothing much is fazing me. I felt emotionally detached yesterday, when the usual old hallucinations began when walking home from Pathways. I wouldn’t call them frightening hallucinations as such, it’s just the time of the day when I become aware of the spirit world and the presences around me. They’re perfectly natural. It’s nothing like looking at a door and being transfixed by a medley of portals for days on end. It’s nothing like seeing spiders and snakes on the floor of the apartment during a speed comedown, or apparitions made with secret technologies inside your mind. These are entirely legitimate beings from another dimension who have a fingertip upon my life, both good and bad. It’s just that they can be a pain! They make me feel self-conscious and awkward, as if I’m the epicentre of a big zany party, when, in reality, it’s just little old me trudging the sidewalks. They drive me to bed early most nights. I try to sit with my emotions and feelings as long as I possibly can. It’s far easier doing so with an alcoholic beverage in my hand, but recently I’ve stopped drinking at home as it was getting slightly out of control.

I was waking up at 4 or 5 in the morning and starting to consume lagers. By the time it was time to go out at half nine I’d have had four, five or six beers. And guess where I was headed to first, for a sharpish one? You got it, the pub. Few pints, and more beers to sit at home with…you can see where it was ending up most nights – with me being sick in the lav. I’ve swore to myself to stop getting drunk. A few pints in the pub is one thing, but guzzling tinnies in the morning is another. The only spirits I drink is the odd double whiskey now and again, if I feel I need an extra kick to go along with the pints in the pub. But, on the whole, my drinking is down and moderated. It’s early days, but I think I may be onto something clever.

No drugs either. Now that is the main thing. I’d rather down a bottle of brandy than neck a bomb of whizz. I’m surrounded by alcoholics in Pathways, who all attest to the fact that booze is the worst drug out there, but seriously, you should try necking a dollop of whizz the way I do. It’s surely worse than any tipple. It makes me so weak, it’s hard to describe; my bones start creaking at the thought of standing up straight. At least on booze you can think. There’s no thinking on whizz. The mind is like a wiped black canvass. No energy whatsoever. And the overbearing dread that things would be better if one were dead. At least, while drinking, you can have a laugh, singing to yourself. There’s no such joy to be found in amphetamine abuse. There’s nothing to be found but the sweet smell of psychosis.

 

A Glimpse Of MK

I’m broke: I’m defeated: I cannot cope. The world is too much, this leaden sky keeps lowering and lowering, all the birds are no longer flying across the high rises of the trees. Everything is distorted. When a child laughs, I hear nothing but the empty sounds of spent bullet shells. Because I have spent so long in a warzone, I do not distinguish pleasure from pain. All is just dead nothingness, all is just hollowed-out airless and crumbling rotting tree bark with nothing but crusty mould and stale fungus creating grubby flies and eyesore mushrooms. I cry out and lament, but the only return is maniacal laughter from my murderous foes. I wish I was dead, but the oblivion of non-existence eludes me. I wish I was with a woman in brown underwear, but where will I ever achieve such blessed rewards? Nowhere, ever, so I am here with you. And we are together. Thankfully, we’re together.

If not for you, I would be lost. But you are not enough, because you don’t acknowledge me. There is no way you are able to acknowledge myself. Don’t worry though, because I have a special spirit who communes with me, due to fracture. She is you, in a way. You know, just another loved one. My love is all expanding. Everyone is my best mate when I fight, instead of burying my head and curling up into a ball. When I stick up for my kindred and ancestry. Yet, sometimes and often, the world is chock-full with haters. It all depends on how much my foes poison me. I have a robust constitution, but LSD is LSD. The only way my milk is safe is if it’s unopened.

I’m an MK-Ultra victim, you see. If you’ve never heard of one, you are not woke, so forget the rest of what I’m about to say and move on. Have you heard of Stranger Things? No? Where have you been, living under a rock? Still here?

Anyway, I’m something different. I’m not a normal human being. How many people say this? I’d love to conduct a survey. Experience the flow, man. Get jiggy with the waves of incorporeal consciousness, wherein swim bodiless quantities of shape-shifting mermaids. Sorry. Went off on one there. What I mean to say is, try to be yourself. And look, now I’m giving out advice. And I’m not qualified to be handing out tips, suggestions or lessons. I don’t know what I’m saying, to be honest, at the moment. But I know that there is loads more.

I just have to assemble it, you know. Process it. This piece has been nothing more than undiluted mind-diarrhoea. I know that, but I am been punished as I speak.

“Arrgh! Arrgh! Please get off me. I don’t deserve sensory depravation! I don’t deserve getting cocooned alive inside a coffin underwater! And all the rest of it! Please let me go and live a life. Live a life rich in luxury, with a vocation, and a family, and friends, and places and things. If not, I will keep fighting and eventually overcome you, as MK!”

 

 

Appropriate Adult

For years I’ve had this dream. I dream of doing something meaningful, of doing something good. It materialised in a police custody cell (was it the same cell where my brother died?), and is reaching extra proportions of plausibility by the day. I’m beginning to wonder about buying new business cards for this endeavour. The card would simply say APPROPRIATE ADULT (AA), followed by my phone number and website address. I would give it out to youngsters on the streets, to get going with. And don’t forget my psychosis group, which will hopefully grow, God willing (I pray!), and which will tie into everything I do in the future from here on in.

I spotted the term in a lawyer’s manual. I was rock-bottom in a cell – this was before the pepper spray, I recall – when a lawyer appeared from nowhere and approached me. He gave me a simple manual, with a smile, and went on his merry way. At the time, I couldn’t help thinking how clever he was, having wrote it himself. It was fabulous reading, on about rights for immigrants in cells and stuff. I was so down, and he was so modestly content with himself. There was one segment about scans in hospitals. After having a scan for my parasite and hearing nothing back, I was very interested in this part. But it was one simple term I came across, the term Appropriate Adult, that gripped my attention.

I would love to be that, I swore to myself. I can be that. For people like myself. For the young. For the Scarificationers. Sorry, I’ve made that word up, it means girls who self –harm. Girls who self-harm, are, to me, Scarificationers. They embark in scarification. You know, those truly beautiful teenagers who make pockmarks and tracks with blades. I love them on a similar plain to witches, if not more. I have so much compassion for girls who dye their hair and pierce their faces and hurt themselves. I tried dying my own hair golden bronze midweek, but it didn’t work. Perhaps it’s a blessing in a way. I feel like asking for my money back!

Yeah, so I’m thinking about dishing out my AA cards on the street. In Maccies, in the pub, outside the bus station, wherever. Not just to anybody, though. These girls (girls primarily, wink-wink), will have to have a kind of haunted depressive look about them. They will have to look young, troubled and down. If they are full of make-up and piercings in a short skirt, then of course they are getting a card. I must make it clear though, I am not trying to get into anybody’s knickers. I would give it to a GILF if I thought she would ring me. And don’t get me wrong also, I am not a legal professional. I’m just a guy here to listen on the end of a phone, meet up if necessary, and support.

Wouldn’t you know it, Appropriate Adult is a movie. And a proper profession. But you should see my version of it. I could be a special one, especially for those in psychosis. Wish me luck with it!

I know it’s weird and cringey, but f**k it.

 

Enslaved By The DK

I’ve been sexually enslaved to a female demon who calls herself the DK. She lives underneath my floorboards. She’s always hurting people and making them say what she tells them to say. This feminine domination (fem-dom) turns me on a lot, I hate to say. The sound of her Scottish voice drives me delirious with lust. I don’t need porn while I’m listening to the DK. All I need is her oppressively powerful voice. It is full of hate and venom, she has no respect for anyone, least of all me, and again, I’m totally ashamed and demoralised to admit that it turns me on. I feel utterly helpless when listening.

Racially abusive towards me, she controls my thoughts, making me repeat certain phrases along with her and her subject. She gets angry if I don’t comply with her trance-y mantras. Sometimes I’ll repeat her name over and over for 24 hours…off my nut on drugs with a hard-on. I like giving up all my power and handing it over to the DK. I like the role play. But this shit is real. There really are people suffering down there. Or I’m a schizo. I’ve never tried to word this before, so bear with me.

The voices start off in my head, but after many hours, I realise that they are emanating from beneath me. I don’t know if she frequents my underground premises only when I am fapping or if she resides down there permanently. All I know is that she is always there.

I need help with this demon. Her pull is so strong, I’ve written poetry about it. A Calling From The Deep, the piece was called. She is almost perfect in every way. I think to myself: I’ll just take some illegal toxic mind-altering substances and spend the day and night with the DK. Her oily, treacly voice is laden with lust and sexual desire. It is a natural elixir. It has what can only be described as a supernatural effect on my mind. No woman’s voice should affect a man like the DK’s voice affects me. I’m not so stupid that I don’t know that much. It’s unholy.

Just thinking about her makes me want to spoil my life and go back to her, full of carnal, erotic, animalistic passion. She’ll talk for as long as I want, from sunrise to sunset and back again if I so desire, there are no limits to the time we are able to spend together. I never get bored of listening to her. It is only when the drugs wear off that I come to my senses and realise that DK is a wrongdoer, and that pain is a large part of her agenda. I hate pain. And so I am in denial with myself. Then the guilt, shame, regret and remorse kick in…and she keeps going, long after I have stopped fapping to her auditory stimuli.

And from hereon in results in days and days of authentic psychosis. I hate her so much when I’m on a comedown and she is still going into her pain fem-dom. This is not love at all, although I always tell her that I love her in my head. Well, maybe it is, I just don’t know anymore, but I always thought it was lust and nothing more. Now I’m not so sure. It might be love, plain and simple. But I cannot love an evildoer, as I consider myself a child of God. I hate every molecule of her being at times, when she isn’t turning me on with her honeyed voice!

I’ve been tempted, last couple of days, to return. She doesn’t allow me to watch porn, and I always end up listening, even when I pray to the Almighty to take my mind away from her. Yeah, sometimes I pray that I won’t listen to her; that porn will be enough, but she always comes in and I always cannot resist. The porn gets switched off and I give her my full obedient attention. My voices berate me for listening to her and sexually gratifying myself on a pleasurable basis, and they berate me vehemently. They lambast me to the extreme over it. When they are all accompli with her in the first place!

I’m penning this for relief, in the hope to overcome. I know it is not savoury reading material. Please God, help me, if you are there. She properly wrecks my life up, I cannot function afterward, she makes me an isolated alcoholic recluse who is scared of his own shadow. She actually knocks on my door sometimes, and talks to me through the letterbox. It is at these moments that I am quite petrified of her, because of my nervous state on the effects of the drugs. But it is also when I am at my horniest, because I know she is so close. Last time, I thought she was in my living room while I’m super vulnerable on whizz sitting in the same spot for multiple hours upon end in the bedroom. She is there to stab me and take me down. She hates me. Although, contrarily, she does admit to loving me, albeit weirdly. I love you weirdly, she says. It would be hard not to, she goes on, because I’ve listened to her for 30 hours a week for ten years (ballpark figure).

The DK is a gang-stalker.

Love. (weirdly)

Hate. (properly)

And a conflicting melee of emotions in between.

 

40 Pats On The Back

40 Days of Clean time equal 40 pats on the back, a Samaritans worker has just suggested to me. I suppose I should be kind to myself. Maybe I’ll celebrate with 40 beers! No, I’m doing really well, truth be told. I’m just painfully aware that it can all go Pete Tong any day of the week. I’m overdue a relapse, if I’m honest, this is a lengthy spell to be away from drugs and porn stars. A very long period of abstinence indeed. I miss them so badly though today, all of a sudden!

I’m getting a little tempted for the first time in this most recent of recovery terms.

Two things have got me thinking down the Use-Up road again.

One is a chance occurrence with my dealer yesterday. He’s fresh out of prison and I took his number. He offered me Fast (amphetamine) and I declined. What I’m after him for are PGs (pregabalin). They are my drug of choice these days. They hardly even qualify as real drugs, in my opinion. Prescription drugs are just medication which the doctors don’t know how to administer, that’s all. If the quacks had any sense, they would have me on a handful of pregabalin every day, instead of sticking a crappy anti-psychotic in my glute which doesn’t do jack-sh*t. So, that’s my version of it. Not even a real drug, just medication. Okay, I take ten, instead of the prescribed one or two, but I’m a big guy with a high tolerance. And they put me in such a good mood. I had some last week, walking around in a happy coma, half-asleep on my feet for much of the time, but it feels so nice. And yes, I’m still clean, because I just got done telling you that they aren’t even drugs, in my humble opinion. You might do and probably do do disagree. You might say that I’m abusing them.

Of course, the temptation to buy Fast, with his number in my phone again, is quite prevalent. What’s putting me off the obvious hedonism and horny sexuality of the drug is the fact that my perps might put another hybrid into my property. I’m not fortunate to believe in the possibility that the last two mutants have been harmless shape-shifters borne of my imagination: I believe that they were physical entities implanted in my bedroom by a shady agency, with the purposes of getting me to get up and leave, thereby evicting myself.  The eventuality of sharing your inner sanctum with hybrids who live under the bed for weeks at a time is almost too frightening to properly cogitate, and results in a fate worse than death.  You might think that I am off my head, thinking along these terms, but you haven’t made eye contact with or smelt one of these things. They are truly revolting and terrifying in every sense of the words, and I’m not too big and brave enough to admit it. Honestly, I don’t know how in God’s name I survived them. They were genuine attempts on my life. If not to evict me, they were there to kill me. They defy description.

Number two reason for this momentary bout of temptation is a sexy encounter by a positive spirit visitation last night. It beats getting raped by the Devil with a metal file (wasn’t that a bangin’ night terror), but it hasn’t really helped my sensuality for fapping. Now, I’m thinking dark thoughts about a certain Demoness Woman who has enslaved me for the last decade. I’ll talk more about her at a later date, but, apart from her forbidden delights, she brings psychosis and terror. She goes by the name of DK. I’ll discuss her after.

 

The Take-Over

It was a really rough night. I spewed up, lost my phone, and got battered. Left stranded and destitute. The aggressors were a bunch of pissed-up Millwall fans. Since I was in the area, I took the decision to knock at my old property, the one that my Ex-partner had inherited during the divorce settlement. I know, but I needed the help.

I had no shoes on my feet. My assailants had taken them, my wallet, and my watch. The Ex opened up with a face mask on, and hugged me as if we were still together, inviting me to put her fella’s Prada slippers on. I did so reluctantly, recalling the toxicity of our ill-fated relationship, wherein she continually cheated on me and pilfered my funds. I used to be a rugby player, but she lost all interest once I was dropped to the reserves. Her new fella appeared, and insisted on a guided tour. He looked like Flash Harry. Apparently he was the top goal scorer at City, pro footballer. While the Ex was making some vital calls, he showed me my old man cave, where his children were deconstructing my PlayStation 5 as part of a scientific homework experiment. They’d sold all the games, but dismantling machines and putting them back together was top of their current agenda. My gaming chair lay in a bundle of pieces in the corner, replaced by a comfy leatherette two-seater. My framed Jonny Wilkinson Jersey was now out of its mounting and adorning the back of his youngest. The second oldest was injecting my cat with a hypodermic syringe. Hansel was meowing loudly.

“Why the hell are you doing that to him?” I asked.

“He needs it every day, for his diabetes,” the little runt replied.

I didn’t even know Hansel the cat had diabetes. I didn’t even know that cats could get diabetes.

The mother-in-law was having a Jacuzzi, newly-built, with ample seating space and simple to use controls. It reeked of eucalyptus. She chewed my ears off for five minutes about her grandkids property portfolios. She offered me some chocolate. I took a bite and spat it out. It was only then that the new fella warned me about it, saying that it contained psilocybin, the active ingredient in magic mushrooms. She gets it ordered off the internet, apparently. I started seeing pink elephants instantly.

“Don’t be a wuss about it,” he said.

He shows me to the acquisition he is most giddy about then, the roof top terrace. It’s here where he grows all his weed, there’s not a regular pine plant in sight.

I turned my nose up at the drugs.

“What are you doing here, wearing my slippers and all that?” he asks. “You can get f**ked for sticking your nose back in!”

It was then that he pushed me off the terrace. I went arse over elbow across the balcony and landed in the swimming pool, again newly-converted. Being unable to swim, I relied on my Ex to help me out. She wrapped one of my old towels around me and said, “I think it’s time you left.”

         Zombie Publications 2025
 

My Life Today

I’ve started my own Psychosis Group. It meets in a bar once a week. So far, we’ve had two meetings. They both went really well. One of the values in SMART meetings is Confidentiality, so I’m not prepared to reveal any juicy details about it. I won’t name the names of who attended, and I won’t share what they were talking about. Don’t get me wrong, I want to, but I know of a strict set of values concerning the methodology of running a group. I’ve been attending groups for years now. Some newbies might come along and talk over everyone. That behaviour would be forbidden.

I will mention Goblins coming out of plug sockets, as that comes from my girl Sam and she’s not a member of the group at the moment. Here I can talk about anyone or anything I like, and there’s not an awful lot of s*it anyone can do about it.

That’s the beauty of blogging.

That’s the freedom of the internet.

We’re all Sam, and we all have Goblins coming out of plug sockets. The Goblins just manifest themselves in different ways to people. Your Goblin might be a gambling addiction, or a car crash, or a busted water main. You see what I’m saying? Goblins.

So, things are fine with me. Instead of reading about Your’s Truly, why don’t we focus on you for a moment, man. How are you doing? Where are you at? What’s the state of your life in at the minute? Take a time out to consider this, then come back to me at a later date. I’ll always tell you where I’m at, no doubt about it, that’s what I’m here for. But it’s you I’m interested in. How long have you been reading this blog? What do you think about it? Bullcrap? Pish? Twaddle? Have you gone back through the annals and visited the pages I wrote years ago? Fair play if you have, because I steadily appreciate that kind of action. I go back a long way, but there’s nothing like the present moment. I aim to be as interesting now as I was then, if not more so, because since about two years ago my life got very serious. No more film reviews and ceramics, but addiction and recovery. What do you prefer? Fiction, or real life stuff? I’d love to read something you’ve wrote, or assess with immense pleasure anything creative you might have achieved. This screen connects us. I sincerely wish the best for you. I don’t care who you are, or what you’ve done. You’ve glimpsed me, and I value that. I’m glimpsing people non-stop all day, in case you’re worrying about it.

I had a few voices from underneath me speaking up yesterday, but I didn’t rise to the challenge. Half the time, I forget that people are down there. I sort of believe that they are bio-metrically linked up to my brain, so if I’m in a good mood, it helps them in some way. If you don’t know what I’m waffling on about, then it’s the pain dungeon and its population underneath my premises. I know it sounds wacky and mad, like the ramblings of a schizo, but I really do have a secret bunker underneath my flat. Don’t worry if you don’t believe me, that’s fine, I probably wouldn’t believe it either, but in my heart, when I’m living with the groans and screams that come out of there, I know it to be terribly true. My neighbours are in on it, in case you’re wondering. I’m still nice and polite to them, no problem. I’ll talk about the dungeon in depth more, soon. I’m pretty sure I’ve got your interest on it, if nothing else. Apart from being Hell on Earth, it is categorically fascinating. Like watching The Exorcist, or something, when that little girl stabs herself in her penny (fanny) with a crucifix and blasphemes God. Charming, eh. Bloody charming. Go on Regan love.

 

Ask Pan About It

Things are going as well as can be expected. Quite good, actually. I’ve not heard any voices whatsoever for a couple of days, which is great and unusual. I usually get the same old nagging ones from a presence I call Jim Wheelbarrow every day when I am walking home from Pathways. Every time I leave a group, and lose my distraction, he comes in with a sure and steady dose of vitriol. Mostly he is echoing my own thoughts. He finds it hard to think for himself, Jim Wheelbarrow does, without impersonating me. My enemies always do that, use my own ammo against me. They hardly have any ammo for themselves.

What’s most surprising about this relapse recovery is the fact that I am not getting any urges. Usually, about this time, I’m like a horny goat on heat, like that God figure Pan. Pan ran on desire, pursuing intimacy. All the triggers are still there, like the two birds in tight leggings in Maccies earlier, but all the porn memories aren’t haunting me like they have always done. All that interracial torrent-y mind-blur from files downloaded years ago normally keep ringing on in the background like an old Nokia phone, but lately I’ve not been thinking of them much. Mostly because they are unattainable. If all of my substantial back-list of interracial porn was available to buy in the boutique shop, instead of the usual predictable bollocks they sell, then it might be a different story, and this might be a different blog. But they’ve all gone, having slid away into history to be downloaded by another new sucker who is up and coming in this porn game. I’ve been waging war with it for over two and a half decades, and it’s taken me this long to get somewhere with it. God help those young pups who are only just getting into it, and have it on instant standby access mode via their mobile phone. They don’t realize how many battles are coming their way.

Before I destroyed my first collection, because I fell in love with Bennie at first sight, I’d had that amount of filth for around 13 years. There was no war on then, it was merely an annihilation of character. I didn’t even know I was being oppressed. I was just enjoying every aspect of it as I matured through my twenties. It wasn’t until my thirties hit that I started to even so much as question it. The thirties was a long old struggle with it, oh boy. By the time I reached my forties, I knew for certain that it wasn’t what I should be doing with my life. Now, it’s just plain wrong, especially with the drugs, and causes bedlam and mayhem in my life. I wish I could still enjoy it, but I can’t. I’m not saying I won’t ever go back to it, but I don’t want to. And that’s the thing: You watch porn against your will. And the addict takes drugs against his or her will. That’s its power. In the fellowship, we call it cunning, baffling, and insidious. There’s no driving force like it. Just ask Pan.

 

Taz's Rubber Outline

 

The biro piece was just an elongated doodle. Who’d have known a simple pen and paper could prove to be so effective? It would help if I could actually draw without tracing from a portrait template, but, alas, I’m unable. Everything you see here goes back way over ten years. I’ve moved on, conceptually, as an artist, but with recent digital losses, it was nice to find these precious gems again. They remind me of what I am capable of, when I’m doubting if I can even sign my own name or not. I’m very challenged, lately, artistically, because I have no studio space. I know all the methods, but have no materials. Art, though, I believe, is the eye inside. Stephen King got told from an early age that he had a movie camera in his mind. I feel pretty much the same. My eye is my lens. I don’t need a Nikon to take photographs: I take them with my mind.

The collages on dark backgrounds have bright funky luminous outlines, but the scanner hasn’t picked the colour up very well, so they look dull. I’m moderately proud of this effort with pictures taken from National Geographic magazine, I got the idea for outlines from my girl Taz. Taz pencilled a portrait of Robin Williams and run around the edges of his face with an eraser (what I call a rubber outline). The effect was startling. Ever since then, I fell in love with outlines. They’re just so dramatic. I didn’t do enough of them in my body of work, looking and thinking back. That’s a sincere regret. If I ever do another piece of artwork with an outline on it again, then I’ll be a happy bunny. That’s why I’m posting these images, because I miss my artwork production so much. It irks me and it aches me, not being in the game any longer. My initials are A T D, and they stand for Art Till Death.

These days, all I do with a canvass is splash paint all over it and stare into it by candlelight to hallucinate within its hues. That’s its sole purpose, to make me mildly hallucinate! Two spirits within my consciousness, Xi Lee and Brooke, make outfits from the patterns and wear them. They look absolutely incredible, if I do say so myself. You should see the things that I see in my paintings in psychosis, wow, it would blow your mind.

The childish characters were drawn by my nephew Warren, when he was only a child. He’s now in his mid-twenties and playing football for someone. I think he showed great potential here. Kids are so brave and daring with their characters, nothing fazes their creativity.

Peanut Butter Skittles

My mum bought the family a bandit. A real-life fruit machine, like. She bought it from the guy around the pool hall – Glen, his name was; he sold it to her off the back of a white transit van, rolling it into the living room on a pump truck.

“Make sure you refill it often with plenty of coins,” he advised her. “So as it doesn’t refuse the pay out.”

My mum skipped lively to the bank for the slummy, exchanging 50 squid. The jackpot was weird, it didn’t make any sense to any of us at the time, but it was only 5p a play. All the kids hit it together, it was a laugh, theatrical and musical, although it never paid out apart from a couple of quid here and there.

One day, myself and my little brother rinsed the jackpot. It paid out in peanut butter skittles. 30 of them, large and chewy and gelid and nutty. That night, we ate them together in bed, and went to the maddest dream imaginable. We dreamt that we were flying through industrial estates on a different planet, and having the time of our lives as we so did. I would motion for him to look at a particular awning, or a particular workshop façade, and he would acknowledge it with amazement. Or he would point out an automation or mechanisation…and I would just look on in wonder like him. We had the time of our lives…but lizards spoiled the fun. Lizards!

“How dare you pair invade our premises,” the lizards said. “This world belongs to us and but us alone.”

We woke in fear, together, but remembered the majesty of the astral plain we’d shared. It was special, it was fun, it was unrivalled. We’d both united far beyond the common bonds of brotherhood; we’d become something singular in the dream state.

I had four peanut butter skittles left the next morning, and I gave him two.

“That’s for tonight,” I said to him. “So we can fly in our sleeps again.”

Our mum caught me giving them to him, and demanded that I stop dealing drugs in my own family. Dealing drugs! she thought. She’d been wondering about our mood ever since the morning.

“Mum, I would never deal to my younger brother!” I argued. “What do you take me for? These are just peanut butter skittles from the bandit.”

“Why the f**k would it pay out candy, for God sakes?” she replied.

“I don’t know, it just does, and it gives us nice dreams…”

My mum played the bandit from there on in. She rinsed the jackpot and ate all 30 peanut butter skittles to herself. That night she was visited by a lizard. It said to her, “Tell your sons to stop frequenting my domain. And you are certainly not welcome yourself before you ask.”

She didn’t get to see any industrial estates on remote planets. Rather, she ordered that the bandit be collected by Glen, and taken back to the pool hall.

Unbeknownst to me, my little brother had fiddled with the back of it before it was whisked away. He had 300 peanut butter skittles to share with me. Our mum was too old to share in the drama of the astral plain, experience had made her hair go white with fear, but we were young and bold, with brave searching in our hearts. So we enjoyed our industrial estates, saying 'Howd'ya do?' to the lizards. With our peanut butter skittles.

 

Sheriff Jon Bunnell

 

John Edwin Bunnell (Born May 25, 1944) is a former American Sheriff of a County in Oregon. Bunnell is best known for presenting World’s Wildest Police Videos. His disdain for crims was apparent. The following excerpt is taken from the commentary to just one of his videos. This is how he spoke…

When I responded to this frantic call for help I understood that most pursuits end in tragedy. It was a 10-50. In a bizarre turn, the blind drunk desperate lunatic madman was becoming more crazed by the second, listening to some twisted inner voice. The vicious criminal blazes and veers, and God help anyone caught in the way of this 10 ton nightmare. This dope dealer is due a trip to the slammer. What has caused his mind to flip so suddenly: Love, desperation or obsession? More likely reckless and senseless indifference. Violence erupted previously when this shirtless and shifty cold-blooded killer incited a full-scale riot. And now this greasy customer is intent on burning rubber. The harsh reality is that he is in for a rude awakening, dead or alive, for causing ever-increasing fear on the streets. He’s nothing but a masked felon and a dangerous criminal. It takes a special breed of officer to take them on, and take them down, regardless if their determination is scary to plain stupid. This local gangbanger is trapped like a rat, but the cops remain cool no matter how tough they wanna play. This remorseless gangster, with a crude arsenal of weapons on the boot, is savage, murderous and scandalous. Let’s book him in.

Places Where People Used To Be

On the Astral Plain last night, I encountered my dead brother. I was lucid, and said that I was dreaming, as I usually say to people when I’m lucid in the Astral. He shrugged it off, as they usually do also. So I had to tell him. I told him, “You died, Jacob. We lost you.”

No reaction. Then I held him close to me (we were sat down) and I wept a bunch of good ole’ tears. When I felt myself wakening, he disappeared into wherever the Astral Plain leads to. Beyond immortality, if you ask me. Anyway, I held the place that he had vacated, the place he was just residing in, and I wept some more. His parent appeared, my Dad and my Step Mum, and they were busy searching for him all over the dreamscape. “Jacob!” they shouted. “Jacob, where are you?” But he had gone. My grief was exceptional, but the burden of a parent’s grief was too much to bear, so I decided to wake myself up and escape the pain. It felt majestic, in a way. The best part of it all was holding him when he wasn’t there. I’d helden the empty space he’d once occupied, the special place in my soul he left behind, and before that had happened, I hadn’t even been aware that I was grieving.

Holding empty space. Where he used to be. I miss ya’, bro’.

 

Mormon Werewolves In Denim Jackets

I spoke with my Pastor on the phone.

“I’m going to give them a try.”

“Joseph Smith was an occultist. His teachings can’t be trusted.”

“I need to explore my faith.”

“The women who follow him are freak shows. Have you any idea of the rumours which surround them?”

“Like what, for example?” My Pastor’s pessimism was discouraging. I was looking forward to Martha and Melody, the female Mormons about to knock on my door for a religious meeting.

“All I’ll say is don’t light any scented candles, whatever you do. That’s a stern warning. And don’t play any classical music.”

“Okay…” He hung up. I looked at the phone receiver in my hand rather perplexedly. If it didn’t have the Christian God written all over it, he was always the same. There was only one book in the world and that was that. The Bible. Well, I was about to try another interpretation of it.

Martha and Melody knocked on at the time they said they would knock on. I invited them in, out of the winter’s night and into the secluded comfort of my property. They were both average height, medium weight, pretty in their own way. Both wore beige blouses with denim jackets, and expensive-looking pendants; which, by the way they shimmered and glimmered, I imagined to be putting a spell on me. They seemed to move and speak as one, as if their mannerisms had been linked together. They finished each other’s sentences and sipped my offered coffee at the same time as each other. We made ourselves comfortable as they read from the Book Of Mormon.

“You should be beginning to feel a warmth in the room,” Martha said.

“And experiencing a beam of intoxicating light sneaking into your soul,” Melody added.

“May we light a candle?” they both said. “And play some music from our phone?”

NO, DO NOT LET THEM! I heard my Pastor scream from somewhere deep inside my own head.

Scented. Classical. I didn’t have time to refuse them. I studied their faces. Their skin was like porcelain, so smooth and silky. I realised then that they were more than just merely pretty – they were truly beautiful. I would have fallen in love with them, but there was something DIFFERENT about them, something that almost, in tragic contradiction, couldn’t be lovable. It was hard to put my finger on what though. Just SOMETHING ABOUT them.

They went into a trance with the candle and the music. They started snoring and speaking in tongues as one. I left the room out of awkwardness and took a quick piddle in the bog. When I returned, I found it hard to believe the predicament facing me.

My pet cat, previously sleeping on his cat mat, was torn in half. Martha and Melody were dancing with what remained, spraying blood around the room like uncorked champagne. They were at least two feet taller, and covered in fur. Their denim jackets had stretched like the Hulk’s shorts. Their gleaming white fangs looked odd along with their lipstick, and their pointy ears were silhouetted against the moonlight coming in from my net curtains. The flame from the candle wavered, and I snorted odours of Beeswax and Amberwood. The sounds of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 filled the room.

I went into shock and froze. Their terrible beauty was intoxicating. They looked like creatures groomed by both God and The Devil, wolf and human in equal measure.

“Welcome to the Brotherhood,” they said. We kissed.   

 

Blind Date 2

 

Jan Balonky’s Dating Habits

Jan, 44

Vital Statistics: Divorced in 2018; 8 children

Current Role: Pornographer

Would Like To Meet: Olly Murs

DATING PAST: I used to go swinging a lot. My ex-husband and I believed in an open marriage. It all went Pete Tong at an Illuminati orgy in some dodgy celebrity mansion one night. I won’t name names, but there were naked people in masks just slipping into me from the rear all night. My ex-husband couldn’t get himself excited, he said it was too busy. They were all coming on my butt-cheeks. I’ve never gobbled off so many party goers in all my life. My jaw was numb and aching from it. I never swallow, though, just so you know. I always let it drool down my chin. Some disgusting pervert woman started licking it off my breasts. Her name was Sylvia. She was collecting the man-fat on a silver platter for some mad reason, and gargling it. Completely disgusting.

PRE-DATE NERVES: I always up my botox game before a date, so my boat race (face) is nice and plump. I’m a sucker for make-up, the more the better. My aim is to look like a pantomime horse. You should see my mince pies (eyes). I get lots of comments about them. Guys say they fall into them like oceanic depths.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS: My most recent date was what I call a Mister Man. He thought he was the bomb. Always in his phone, every two plus five minutes. Suave suit from Armani, Hugo boss watch this and Hugo Boss watch that. Nothing but a big fat show off. As soon as he found out I was a pornographer he started feeling down his pants a lot, as if he couldn’t wait to get hardo and ram it in my quim. Little did he know that I don’t work that way. It’s at least three dates until my knickers hit the deck.

EASY TO TALK TO: Mister Man was a complete dick. What kind of a guy has a brown wallet? He said he was privately educated and a graduate of Bright Futures School. The only bright thing about him was his dentures. I couldn’t trust a thing he rambled on about BitCoin, or stocks and shares, or negative equity properties. I was f**king bored silly. When I tried to drop my own hobbies in there, like floristry and sewing, he stared at me as if I’d just asked him to lick off my bleached arse hole. Absolutely no interest in the comings and goings of the opposite sex. I’ve no time for the wannabe high-flying showman.

EMBARRASSING MOMENTS: When he lit up a cigar. And when he insisted on paying. He was wadded, I’ll give that to him, but it takes more than cold hard tender to worm your way into my good books. More than a firm solid todger as well. I like to be read to, or cooked for, you know, really cherished. You can’t just offer to pay for the truffles and expect a nosh round the back alley, or in the hotel room later. It doesn’t work that way, I’m afraid, Mister Man. Let’s just settle the bill 50/50. I’ll pay one half, you pay the other. I’m a professional working woman who can pay her way anytime with anyone, anytime or anyplace. That’s the way I roll. I’m the amazing Jan Balonky.

DID SPARKS FLY: None what so ever. He had all the charisma of a retired janitor. I’m sprightly and eloquent and bubbly and confident and chatty, nothing like him at all. I got the feeling he was just out to impress me. Leave it to me to do the impressing, with my body modifications and my make-up. His attire wasn’t even up to all that much, as it was too tight on him, and he wasn’t in as good a shape as he thought he was. Middle age crisis type, if you ask me. Ugh, keep away!

SEE HIM AGAIN: I’d rather be linked up as part of the Human Centipede than date Mister Man again. His stupid accent was beginning to do my nut in once we got to the dessert. He came across as a snob with resentments to strong powerful femininity. He didn’t know how to handle me.

WHAT DO YOU THINK HE THOUGHT OF YOU: I think he thought I was an easy lay, because of the way I look and because of my porno background. Nothing could be further from the truth. If he was a poet or something, or a musician, I’d understand his confidence, but he was nothing but a no-mark in an Armani suit with Boss this and that. Plus his head was stuck in his phone.

WOULD YOUR FAMILY AND FRIENDS LIKE HIM: I know several friends who he might actually rub off on, but my parents wouldn’t let him through the door.

The Ray

Jane Garcia was emptying the tumble dryer in the laundry room when the ray hit. She felt it come in through the window. She didn’t quite see it, but perceived it; a tenebrous nestle of translucent squiggly lines like a spider web shot from an archer’s gun, swarming in from the sky. She didn’t hear any planes or drones. But what she felt was astonishing.

Her right ear imploded. It was the only word most apt to describe the sensation. She went momentarily deaf in it immediately. Then she heard a pulse in the eardrum, which shot into her brain and down her spine to the bottom of her feet. The pulse was like a deafening roar from the ocean, only electronic and tinny and sharp. She’d been holding her phone in her hand, and now her fingers clenched it tightly, almost crushing it in her grasp. Her other hand raised to her temple, in an attempt to tame the shaky, skipping throb in her skull. It sounded like some ancient industrial machine being fired up for use in an old Victorian factory. She let out a squeaky yelp from her throat and slammed the dryer door.

Moving quickly into the living room, she realised that every one of her limbs was alive with fire and pain. Her stomach did a somersault. She projectile vomited all over the sofa, no chance of reaching the toilet, and dropped to her knees on the floor. Then she was aware of a burning in her hand. Tears blurred her vision, and made her think that her phone was melting. It wasn’t, but it was hot and inflamed, the battery having swollen and popped the plastic casing. She dropped it in a hurry.

First day as an FBI Agent going great.

“I know what this is,” she mumbled to herself, wiping her mouth. “This is an anomalous health incident.” She cackled wryly, looking at the land line. For months she’d been studying these kinds of ‘accidents’ and now one had happened to her. She made it to the telephone with wobbly legs, unsure of how far away the floor was from her feet, and unsure of how much distance she was putting between each step. It felt like moonwalking drunk in slow motion over a turbo carousel.

Her director Wallace answered on the second ring. “Garcia?”

“Luka Sokolov’s got me,” she told him, breath barely a whisper. “Through the window in my laundry room. An ultrasonic acoustic ray. I’m out of action for the moment. My brain’s in pieces. I’ve lost my balance. I’m nauseous. I’m–”

“Try not to panic,” Wallace replied. “We’re closing the net on Luka as I speak. This will be his last attack, I assure you. Now, what you need to do is this: Immerse your head in a sink full of water for at least thirty seconds, and then rest your skull against a stone wall. Do you hear me? I need you to do this immediately.”

“I know, I know, it dampens the signal.”

“You’ll be alright. We’ll meet for lunch, when you’ve recovered.”

“Correct.”

Jane hung up and got her crap together. She wanted to be there when Wallace nailed Luka. She wanted to be the one putting electrodes on his fingertips. This was nothing. She had a meeting with the director to take care of. A meeting with the director of the mutha-f**king FBI.

Zombie Publications 2025

 

The Kidnap

 

Glitch looked forward to spending his ten grand fee for kidnapping this latest victim. He planned a holiday to Spain, relaxing in the English bars and tanning his bod on the beach with Dry Martinis in hand. There were secret cameras in the victim’s bedroom, linked to Glitch’s phone. Glitch always had his phone out. He charged it religiously every night to keep the battery active during the days. Today, he’d charged it this morning, because it was now night. 3am, to be exact, a time when the target would definitely be sleeping. He could see the target was sleeping on his phone screen, as snug as a bug in a rug. He wouldn’t be soon. He would be chloroformed and dragged out of there, feet first, into the waiting van. Glitch’s accomplice was the driver. His nickname was Burnout, because he had a history of arson. When they started kidnapping people in Brazil, Burnout often torched the shack once they were done. Not to destroy any trace of evidence, but because he liked looking at his shadow amidst all the curling flame and smoke.

There was a soundproofed garage not far away from where the victim was headed. Some implements waiting for him involved a claw hammer, a ripsaw, and a selection of novelty bladed articles fashioned specifically for purpose in a shady tool shop in Belgium. The buyer apparently had a special futuristic cutting-edge helmet which, when placed around a dead guy’s head, could resuscitate him back to life. Eternal preservation. This part blew Glitch’s mind, and he half thought the buyer was lying, trying to show off or something. He was up to date with the Torturer’s Handbook 2025, and, so far as he knew, there was nothing about life after death in it.

This victim was a vagabond, a runaway, with no security on his poxy downbeat council flat on the periphery of an unlit cul-de-sac. Not even a door light to scare the cats away. Glitch extracted a cut key and prepared to enter. Behind him, Burnout spat on the ground in derision of the victim’s poverty, something he frequently did before entry. The van was still running with its back doors open.

Glitch studied his phone. The cameras in the bedroom had audio, and the wastrel guy was snoring peacefully. As he neared the key to the front door lock, the victim suddenly stopped snoring, rolled over, and sat up. Burnout craned his neck to see Glitch’s phone.

“I'll be Goddamned, it’s true,” he said.

Glitch and Burnout had been warned of this. They had been told that the target had a protective ghost who woke him up every time he was about to be kidnapped. This was the eighth attempt on his life. Glitch had been confident that spooky stuff like this wouldn’t happen to him. He was too professional to be slipped up by anything so make believe as a supernatural entity. He was Glitch, for Christ sakes!

“F**ker’s got a guiding hand,” Burnout whispered, and retreated. Glitch retreated with him. It appeared that he wouldn’t be getting his Spanish retreat after all.

In the darkness of an empty room, a man with a ransom on his head heard a spirit whisper two simple words: “Love you.”

Zombie Publications 2025

The Kleptomaniac

I wanted a flash fiction story from my favourite pupil, one she could use in her end of year exams. I’ve been a teacher at Coventry College for over a decade, and never have I come across someone who could write so well at such a young age. Destiny, my fav pupil, is barely into her twenties, yet the weight of her literature suggests someone far older. She’d been incarcerated due to poor mental health halfway through her studies. I’d taken the time to go and see her at The Hospital Of St Cross while she was there. I remember walking into that off-putting and sterile environment with genuine fear; what medication did they have her on, what experiments were they performing on her, was the food being poisoned? Psych units have a very depraved history.

            “Hi Professor Cameron, I’m glad you came, come in and sit down. Can I make you a brew?”

            I’d taken a seat in the visitor’s reception area, a room of bare windows and beige furnishings. “Yes, that’d be great Destiny. Thank you. It’s great to see you. Milk and one sugar.” I took a moment to consider her fractured existence as I waited patiently for her to return with promised brew. It was just the way I liked it.

            She sat down, facing me, and handed me a journal. It was a posh notebook, decorated with pictures from magazines and newspapers. In it were letters to me; many many letters addressed to me, ever since I met her on enrolment evening. She confessed her love for me in each and every one of them. Some were marked with lipstick, and some were illustrated with graphite pencil. I’d known we’d shared a bond, but nothing like undying love rendered in ink. I skimmed over them with a smirk on my face as Destiny slurped her cuppa opposite me.

            I kissed her on my way out, and I cried in the car park before driving to my rural home on the outskirts of the city. I couldn’t bear to leave her there suffering, a puppet played by that tyrannical system of oppression, and wished she could return home with me. My wife has been dead six years, and I never thought I’d ever find anything remotely approaching genuine love or compassion for anyone ever again. Until I read Destiny’s work.

            I’m now on my porch, rereading her letters. I’m drinking Jim Beam and lemonade from a tumbler with a tray of nibbles beside me, Bombay Mix actually. I’m beginning to get a sense of how she feels like when I’m teaching her in class. She describes the way she looks at me like someone on a first-time visit to a zoo ogling a wild parrot or some other exotic animal.

            Destiny thrived in the institution, and got out unscathed to resume her studies with me. I’m currently sending her a text message: E-mail me a story about a kleptomaniac. I’d love to hear your thoughts, beliefs and passions regarding the subject. I robbed a Twirl from the petrol station earlier today.

           I prompt her, she writes.

           It’s time to go inside now, to do writing of my own, as I have a love letter to reply to.

© Zombie Publications 2025