Bøger udgivet af Morbidbooks

He had to have her the moment he saw her trachea ring. Six months later she was his lovely wife. He performed his duties as a husband and she as a wife. He tolerated a house filled with references to her late first husband and the children they had together. He put up with her prudish ways. He waited. He was patient. He planned. He was adaptable. He was rewarded over the course of a week in her basement. He turned his perverse sexual fantasies of worms and maggots and her lovely crusty trachea ring into a gruesome reality.

There was a time when toenails were plentiful and I could swallow one down while pressing the button for eight more minutes of blissful sleep. Clamminess washed over me. There was no way I would be able to make it to work like this. I needed toenails to start my morning right. In the grips of withdrawal I could not think of anything other than toenails and scoring toenails. Toenails were all that mattered. Ripping the duvet away from the wife was the difficult part. She held it in death's grip beneath her chin and tucked between her legs. I became used to never having any blanket - not even a little patch. I would crank up the heat when I woke with my midnight toenail cravings regardless of the season; a little bit of spite courtesy of good ol' dad. My wife would still be reluctant to liberate the duvet despite sleeping in a pool of her own sweat that turned the flakes of dead skin into slush. I once tried to satisfy my cravings with this skin slush; day-long diarrhoea left me on the toilet and the family had to use the outdoor one. Shaking, it was more difficult to pry the duvet away from her. The withdrawals became worse each day. It seemed her grip on the duvet became tighter as the withdrawals became worse - her subconscious conspiring against me. The back of her mind knew I was no good for her and should trade her in for a younger model.I only needed access to her feet. Toe jam wasn't as good a substitute for toenails as dick cheese but I needed to make it into work today and every other day for the rest of the fucking year. The board of directors were the biggest bunch of loser arse-ferrets this world has ever seen. I could not even provide an accurate description of what it was I did all day or a clear title for the job that would be on the line if I had a sick day.

When the winds blew I felt them blowing through me, when the land shook, it was my corpus that trembled. When the tides ebbed and flowed I became more shore and more sea. I was day and night as the sun and moon described the steps of their dancing within me. Just as I could see all the world at once, I was all of these things at once, and the motion of an entire world formed the foundation of my stillness.I'd travelled through the Sphere of Glammeth, descended through the Guardian, and then through the Grey-Man, fallen through a hole that pierced all the worlds. I had followed the stream to its source and become the worlds through which I'd fallen; now in completion I dwelt in gaps between overlapping pulses of time; the multitude within the one.And thus I remained for all time in stillness and motion, fullness and emptiness. Whole in content, whole in process, whole in time. Seeing all, being all, my eyes the eyes of the cosmos, in ultimate being.

TUMOUR-DJINNI ORDER A magic lamp from the internet. According to the seller, it is good as new, and after rubbing the thing, a djinn will come out and give me three wishes. A few days pass, and the package arrives. A sign on the lamp's side informs me that the product is not suitable for children under the age of three, because they can swallow the small pieces. I don't know what tiny parts a genie could possibly have, but nowadays they write this warning to everything.I begin to rub the lamp, but what comes out fails to meet even my lowest expectations. Along with some dark smoke a thin, bald guy crawls out. His skin is all grey, the eyes are colorless pebbles. He hands me his medical charts, like it was a business card or something, which reads: Stage 4 Lung Cancer."I never smoked one cigarette in my life!" adds the genie, and begins to cough.I don't know what to do with my new cancerous djinn. I keep telling him my wishes, but he just stares in silence, or talks about nonsense."I want a tree which grows money as leaves!" I command him."I never realized, life can be so short. We are just putting the bricks, one into another, then we try to climb over the wall that we created. But it is so big. It covers the sun." he mutters, drawing in the air with his pencil-like fingers."I want a sports car!" I try again, but he just looks out in the window, gazing the clouds, telling me: "Can cancer grow in birds? Does it kill owls in the forest, or eagles in the mountains? The deer maybe? The giant fish on the bottom of the sea?"With a desperate look I say: "I want a swimming pool."But the djinn begins to cough up blood, and it is damned sure, I won't get any swimming pool today.

Brian tried to remember how all this started as he drove into the torrential night; it almost hurt his head trying to recall the events leading to this moment in time. Maybe it had started when he was at university. He had a girlfriend in his final year that had gotten him into some weird stuff sexually then she left him for a guy with a bigger cock. The other guy was some gay looking chump with muscles and a tattoo; the pair had died in a car accident and Brian took a dump on their graves after each of their funerals.Fuck the both of them. But after she had left him he needed to fill the void of the newfound enjoyment of sickening sexual practices. Brain had purchased one of those 'real life' sex dolls online from a Japanese company; the company had some kooky name like 'FUKARADA' or something. Crazy Japanese bastards, they really led the way in the perverse. Boy did the thing look real; you could bend it into any position and it came armed with enormous tits, willing mouth and a supposedly real feel pussy and anus. The packaging said to 'just add lubricant' but there was a problem. There was something missing; the smells, the tastes and the feel of real skin. You can't emulate that. So Brian set out to attempt to build a real life sex toy made from real life people.

Keegan is a late-night public access radio show host, sexual deviant, and militant vegan. He has grown tired of his vegan cause being treated with apathy by the portly, meat-gorging, residents of the small town of Breen Gay, Wisconsin. The time is ripe for Vegan vengeance.Keegan harvests roundworms from a local vagrant and mutates them using chemicals stolen from the meat packing plant. He infests the populace with the voracious, parasitic carnivores. Keegan knows that the only way for the people of Breen Gay to eliminate the parasites is to starve them of meat. It is with great expectation that he awaits the oncoming utopia of Veganism. However, the mutant roundworms will not die easily. The problems for the people of Breen Gay have only just begun.

That's the last time she gets the bigger worm. Once their flesh flakes away the angels collapse into puddles of hissing goop and withered petals blow into them hurried along by unseen winds. My spit looses its sweet taste to the black flavor of ash. The glowing birds in the bright orange sky burst into small sparkly novas. The sky itself weeps and tears, streaking down like a ruined painting as the dismal gray of life wheezes back before my eyes. I don't blink; praying silently for one last desperate sensation of the high. Lila feels it too. She writhes on the mattress next to me; her moans of ecstasy warping into groans that capture the hollowness of our souls. Tears form in her eyes and I can almost feel the lump in her throat. It's gone and she wants to cry. I'd rather chase down more Worms than cry about it but everybody reacts to the Worms differently. I slip away to my own neon colored utopia where things with wings fan me and comfort me when the living neon worm dissolves under my skin. Lila told me once they wrap around her like a giant fuzzy neon hug. I imagine her high shedding off her like snake skin and flaking to the filthy floor next to the mattress. Her high sounds better than mine. More Fun. That's the last time she gets the bigger worm.

FUN AND GAMES DOWN AT THE RACE RIOTS!We've had four blacks killed by cops in a short span of time that have made big news. The score is that two of them deserved it. Two of them didn't. They were murdered by the cops. The Civil Rights Movement latched onto one of those assholes who totally fucking deserved it and polarized the races even more. If they only waited until one of the legit cop murders, then there would have been a whole lot of people holding hands and singing Kum-by-ya. Lucky for me, they didn't.

It was a whorehouse, but not one open to just anyone. To get there you had to be dying or insane. The services offered were all offered for the same price, which was everything you had. There were paths there that only those who had crossed the border into the Undiscovered Country could find, if they knew the landmarks to follow, the signs to watch for.Clem followed and watched and two days ago his mule had done died of exhaustion and it was just him and Lady keepin' on who knew how and finally they came to a dead town with no name at twilight and a whorehouse with a sign above the door that Clem could not read: A SOILED DOVE IN A CAGEPUTS ALL HEAVEN IN A RAGEA whorehouse run by demons. A whorehouse that offered the greatest pleasures a man could ever want... in exchange for everything he had.Am I gonna do this? Am I really gonna...The cancer in his belly twisted spikes through his impacted bowels and in front of him lay Lady, a sacrifice.And Clem pushed that door open and stepped across the threshold

Pulling into the parking lot is a massive semi, with a huge trailer painted with gory pictures of impaled bodies and a pile of severed heads. There's a huge silver skull near the back that has the words 'Mother' and 'Fucker' where its eye sockets should be, and 'Black Skull of Death' for a mouth. The truck pulls around, away from the front of the store. I can see the doors on the back of the trailer as the driver backs the rig towards us. It's a painting of a naked woman with huge tits. She's covered in blood and sitting on a massive pile of skulls, holding a can of Mother Fucking Black Skull of Death between her legs. I'm instantly hard as a rock.

Jeremy Jenkins is a pharmacist living a nightmare. America has made serial killing provisionally legal. What was once a crime is now a game. Juvenile delinquent Reapkids dressed as history's deadliest murderers roam the streets causing chaos. Cannibal Godless Jack Cavanagh is on every morning show. And Jeremy's girlfriend Cass, the love of his life, can't get enough of it. Could be worse. Creatures from another dimension could be infiltrating ours getting our women pregnant. He could live with the guilt of being history's most prolific serial killer. The fate of a world not worth saving could rest on his broad shoulders. Maybe they are. Maybe he is. Maybe it does.

HUMANITY IS THE DEVIL is a deconstructed nightmare mixing David Lynch and snuff movies. The plot revolves around a central character, Seth, who is set about a crusade against humanity which, for him, represents pure evil. Through random killings he and his cronies try to accelerate the end of the world, in order to provoke and defeat the Demiurge, the false God that is ruling the earth. As in Burroughs, logical language is replaced here with cut-scenes - sometimes to be taken literally - that plunge the reader into an extreme experience. Both incredibly morbid and enthralling, HITD is a masterpiece of moral darkness and existentialist reflection upon our comfortable religion and morals.

"My moustache twitched in an effort to escape the confines of a bucket of cream, hair ointment and the extensions I had put in last week. It wanted to compete with Teddy's natural face locks and show that it, too, could stand proud. The hair on my arms had only run of the mill body lotion to keep it in place, which in the unexplained circumstances I found myself in with Teddy Dick that late summer morning, was of complete uselessness. It stood up on end. I looked over at Teddy. The desire to see a facial hair out of place, snap a picture and post it online was too strong to resist. But his face hair was perfect, as always, leaving my heart to sink and ponder what I must look like (I refused to confirm my suspicions by looking in the mirror). The hair on his arm closest to me was in a state similar to my own. At least not everything about him was perfect. It was confusing that someone could be so perfect and yet, still be such a dickhead."

The hands of the girls were inside of each-others zip front grey boiler suits and they sat in the blood from where Sonny's face collided with the surface. The brunette had a finger smear of it next to her mouth. "You two sluts put each other down and go tell Moira that Sonny's done. I'm coming in, just got a little business to attend to first." The two girls jumped to attention with a crack of sixteen roller skate wheels on the hard tile floor. They straightened themselves up; wiping away saliva and smudged pink lipstick; zipped up their clothes and teased their hair back into shape with black glossed finger nails. The two girls sounded off in unison, "Yes sir, Sergeant Tea-pot." As the two started to leave the big blond grabbed the shoulder of the red head and pulled her back. "Not you Fire-Crotch, all this fucking blood has got me going." She started to unbuckle the belt on her camouflage hot pants. "Down you go, bitch!"

..".part-time hitman/ exterminator, Ignius Ellis's dream is to buy a candy-apple red Nova Supreme. In the process of trying to earn enough cash to make his dream come true he gets sucked into the rough world of Visitacion Valley, SF. When the tenants in his apartment complex reveal their various extracurricular activities this take an even more bizarre twist and Ellis soon becomes acquainted with the nightmarish Slave State dimension..."

From Alex S. Johnson, the author of Bad Sunset, Wicked Candy and The Death Jazz, comes a new vision in Bizarro horror. Imagine a TROMA film on meth and acid, one part cyberpunk, one part Franz Kafka, and three parts frankly unsuitable for a sane audience. "Will make you feel as if you've just eaten 8 Percocets and washed 'em down with a bottle of moonshine," says Necro Stein of Texas Terror Entertainment.

In the afterglow of a world that was, and will never be again... Clem is a suicidal mime, degenerating into a fish. Cassie is a teenage brat, pregnant with a child that seems to center around mysterious cults devoted to cats and dogs."In ICHTHYIC IN THE AFTERGLOW, Jason Wayne Allen has selected elements from Robert W. Chambers' THE KING IN YELLOW and H.P. Lovecraft's fictional dream-realms and skillfully constructed a futuristic nightmare world that gleams like a poisoned river with an oil-slick spectrum of toxic colors. Move over, William S. Burroughs: you may have prepared a NAKED LUNCH, but now Allen is serving up an orgiastic smorgasbord of decadent horrors and wonders."- Mark McLaughlin, Author of BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM and HIDEOUS FACES, BEAUTIFUL SKULLSMORBIDBOOKS. READ LIKE THE DEVIL.

Jonathan Moon: "D.G. Sutter takes you into a sticky dark world inhabited with wonderfully weird characters in The Mercenaries of Havenshaw Crypt. Get ready for wicked action and quick wit when you wander through Mr. Sutter's imagination." Jordan Krall: "D.G. Sutter is a Satanic Tolkien, spinning an entertaining story in an infernal world of grotesqueries and humor."FOR SO LONG as anyone could remember, The Flagrant Five have ruled the land with an aggressive hand-enslaving children, destroying the wilderness-but Father Necrocious is tired of it all. One of his worst enemies (and a member of the Flagrant Five), Manservant Genesis, has escaped his imprisonment as a shadow.Therefore, he's enlisted the help of a ragtag group of fabricated Mercenaries to turn the fascists to shadows. The annual Dictators' Ball is pending (a battle in which children are used as pawns to determine the fate of the free world), and the brothers plan to stop the gala before it can commence. As they weave their way through the cartoonish landscape they will fight with their options to either trap the Flagrant Five with their shadow guns, or disobey their creator's orders and finally kill the Five for good.

THE LAST LUMP OF CRYSTALLISED CHEMICAL crackled away inside the burnt up light bulb. Fingers covered with soot clung to the makeshift pipe as his painted lips sucked out the smoke; the flame from the trembling disposable lighter catching the glitter in his blue afro. His eyes sunk into the smudged grease paint like piss holes in the snow. Pickles the clown slumped back into his chair as the smoke worked its magic in his lungs. The chemical being sucked up like a sponge by his near to kaput alveolar membrane into the pulmonary capillary's and into his blood stream. It rushed towards his brain adding yet another tiny black spot of damage to his grey matter. His eyes rolled up into his head as his body shivered from the first wave of intoxication and the world around him flushed away. He was buzzing from his big toe to his last hair follicle, a sensation of euphoric rapture as if his entire body was being licked by a million amateur porn starlets. His limp penis twitched with a pulse of stimuli from the drug signalling his return to reality and his eyes rolled back into the real world. The buzz passed as quickly as it had come leaving Pickles a little disorientated but still high as shit. Pickles had voided his bladder into his sweatpants. "Aw, fuck it!" He got up dizzy with the effects of the junk he had bought from Dominic the pimp earlier that morning and staggered towards the bathroom to fetch a towel. He pulled down the soaked sweatpants and threw them onto a heap of unwashed laundry. He washed his dick and his inner thighs in the sink with cold water then stared off into the mirror. The grotty bathroom looked like a stained glass window behind his gaunt made-up face as the residual effect of the drug changed his visual perception.He walked back out into the hallway; he would need cigarettes and some coffee, maybe a hit or two of sleeping tablets. The chemical in his blood would wear off soon enough and the comedown was hard. Pickles then stepped bare foot into a pile of cold cat shit. MORBIDBOOKS. READ LIKE THE DEVIL.

Allow me to open the door, guide you inside, and introduce you to a little Wicked Candy. "This is a sweet designed for the discerning Bizzarro fan's tastes, and I promise, you will not be disappointed!" --Mimi Williams, author of Beautiful Monster"A short collection that both traverses the genre lines and melds them together into one masterpiece. Jam packed with horror, laughs, pop culture history and more, this one is a must have for lovers of the macabre, the bizarre and the hilarious." --Jeff O'Brien, author of Bigboobenstein

Rae is her name. Our support group of embittered and most likely deranged women are going to kidnap, torture, disembowel and finally kill the woman who has ruined all our lives. As foul and as grotesque as she is, she acts like she's Queen of the Bean.Rae, her buck-tooth grin and rosy cheeks of middle age acne reflected winter sun. Straw-like blonde hair obscured by the veil and tiara she enjoyed parading around in. She walked past our window with sickening confidence oblivious to us and our weak tea. Rae. Everything was always about Rae. Was she a princess today, or was she a bride? Did she know or care? Did it even matter? We wished we could be that delusional and walk around with an air of not giving a damn.Rae believes she is above the pain she has caused. Beyond the whimpering of her victims. Out of reach of vengeance. Our support group of women do not agree. Judgement day is here for Rae. Our support group will enjoy every moment of agonizing torment and misery we will force her to endure.Rae has got it coming.