but I think both his versions of deep ones and shoggoths are awesome.
THE MANLY ADVENTURES OF ABNER DEGGENT
Abner Deggent’s Christmas Hits
Al Bruno III
Life as the personal biographer of world renowned soldier of fortune Abener Deggent had exposed me to locations, cultures and venereal diseases of the most exotic nature. Our Christmas eve adventure on Finch Island was no less unique.
But first allow me to introduce myself I am Ralph Brooks and perhaps you have read some of my other stories such as Abner Deggent and The Cardshark Of Sharu or Stop Those Nazis! Be sure to check your local newsstands.
Finch Island was owned by a minor league crime lord known as ‘Mr. Finch. It is a small island. Its proximity to Mexico and international waters makes it a haven for smugglers and cutthroats, its proximity to the state of California ensures a regular influx of cheap floozies and pornographers. It was only natural that in the summer of 1951 the winds of fate, and a minor shipwreck, would bring us there.
Abner Deggent’s ordeal of pernicious percussing, began sensually enough. Deggent had brought a woman of questionable hygiene and negligible sobriety back to our bungalow. They wasted no time removing each other’s clothes. The floozy caressed his mighty thews, until Deggent could take no more and he wove a trail of kisses from her furry bellybutton towards the wild thatch of hair that had undoubtedly hidden the delta of her Venus from view since the latter days of the Roosevelt administration.
I would go into further detail but that was when Deggent realized I was still in the kitchen and he chased me out of the house. With no other recourse I made my way to the town’s only bar, a ramshackle establishment owned and run by the master of the island himself. I had barely finished my first beer when Deggent sat down on the barstool beside me. “Sorry about that old chum,” he said, “but a man has needs.”
“Finished already?” I asked.
“Yes,” he explained, “Besides, I have a date with Sherrie in twenty minutes.”
I had to laugh, Deggent had always been one to favor quantity over quality. It was one of his most American qualities. “So you left that other woman alone in our bungalow? How very trusting.”
“I sent her packing, she wanted to make small talk but men have no patience for such things. Iit reminds me of the time...”
Before he could go on both of his floozies came storming into the bar. Deggent stood to meet them, “Ladies! I didn’t know you two knew each other. Perhaps we could-”
The floozie on the right slapped him. Ever the gentleman Deggent turned the other cheek only to have the floozy on the left strike that side. His back against the wall Deggent stood his ground. Finally Mr. Finch restored order by firing a shotgun into the air, killing two of the people attending the unruly Tupperware party on the second floor.
The floozies ran out the doors but the master of the islandblocked our way. He asked, “Why did you not strike back? Do you like being to be hit?”
“No,” Deggent said, “I just don't believe in striking women in mixed company.”
“On this island we slap fight for sport,” Mr. Finch explained, “two men enter the town square and only one leaves.”
“That sounds ridiculous!” I sneered.
“Do not mock, there is much money to be made.”
That got Deggent's attention, “Money you say?”
“Yes,” Mr. Finch nodded.
“Much you say?” Deggent asked.
“Then tell us more.”
Mr. Finch explained the rules of the strange sport as he led us to the non- euclidean town square. Two men would face each other, trading blows to the face until one could take no more and surrendered. Cash was wagered on the outcome of these slap fights, odds were made on who would win, how many slaps would be exchanged and who would burst into tears first. Abner Deggent declared himself up to the challenge and ordered me to place bets. We were both feeling very confident that this strange challenge would allow us to restore our finances. If we made enough cash we might be able to repair our boat and be back on the mainland by New Year’s eve.
By sunset all of Finch Island had gathered around the town square. Deggent had stripped to the waist and was preening for the audience. I, meanwhile, was placing bets confident in Abner Deggent's rugged manliness.
Then the contest began, two men traded slap after slap, the air rang with the sound of flesh striking flesh and soon both men’s faces were as red as the bottom of a naughty schoolgirl’s after a good, hard spanking.
Five men tested their mettle against Abner Deggent, five men retreated from the square with watering eyes and broken spirits. My hands were full of loot- fifties, twenties and counterfeit trading stamps. As I was counting Mr. Finch approached me, “You have done very well. Do you have enough to repair Abner Deggent’s precious boat?”
“Sadly no,” I explained, “it will take more than a few hundred dollars to repair the SS My Ex-Wife Took Everything Else.”
Mr. Finch watched as a sixth challenger ran sobbing from the town square, “Then I have a proposal for you. If Deggent can defeat the island’s champion I will triple the money you have in your hand... Including the trading stamps.”
“And if we lose?”
“Then your boat is mine.”
We took the offer.
Deggent smirked as the island’s champion stepped into the town square. My first impression was that he was a slight, almost sickly-looking man with a sunken chin...
...and a left hand five times the size of a normal man’s!
Despite the wildly cheering crowd I could hear Deggent swallow heavily. I glared at the master of the island knowing we had been effortlessly tricked.
I said to him, “You’re a mean one, Mr. Finch.”
...A pub in Wellington, New Zealand, has caused quite a stir after it decided to serve apple-flavored horse semen shots to its customers.
Steven Drummond, co-owner of the Green Man Pub, in Wellington, was looking for a new drink as the entry for the nationwide 14th annual Monteith’s Beer & Wild Food Challenge, when he realized the sperm harvested from a nearby Christchurch stallion farm would make a fine choice. Add some apple flavor and voila, you have the most disgusting shot ever served in a bar. And the weirdest thing is people actually pay big money to try it. If someone paid you to drink horse semen, I’d (kind of) understand, but when you’re the one paying $20 for a shot of the stuff, you have a problem....
I bet these guys got ALL the chicks.
IN THIS TWILIGHT
By AL BRUNO III
Nine months in
The call center was subdued at night, the noise of a roomful of people all talking at once was replaced by the murmurs of just a few. Occasionally Mike would hear the rumble of the trucks that came and went from the loading docks at all hours. Semis and vans were queued up sometimes three deep to drop off and pick up materials from the research and deployment center. Mike had never seen the labs but Cosmos had told him that they were three levels below the first floor. He wasn’t sure he believed her because none of the stairwells or elevators seemed to have any access to a sub basement level.
Mike’s phone bleeped, his computer screen filled with data, he knew instantly this was the accounting department for a hospital in Los Angeles, “Thank you for calling Trinity Advance Corporation, I am Michael your Sales and Billing Technologist. How may I be of service to you today?”
“Hi Michael, my account number is eight one nine six nine six eight eight one five. I have a little question about this bill we received.”
“Of course sir. Let me look over that information now.” Usually Mike never got calls from the West coast but the overnight team’s job was to handle any overflow of calls the Seattle call center might be experiencing.
There was an LED readout screen suspended on each corner of the call center, it gave workers a constant tally of the number of calls holding and for how long. It also had the time on the East coast and West coast. It was almost eleven o’clock.
One hour and I can go home, he thought as he explained the bill to his caller. Five hours of overtime had seemed like a good way to replenish his savings after paying several hundred dollars to replace the front end suspension of his car. Now he was starting to feel worn out, he couldn’t wait to get home and get to sleep.
And then get up in seven hours to start the whole thing over again.
Well it’s not like I have anyone waiting for me at home. He thought glumly as he concluded the call and moved on to the next one. The whole Christine thing hadn’t worked out. She had made three dates with him and stood him up each time. The first time Mike had assumed it was a mix up, the second time he was bemused but by the third time he’d been too angry to see straight. If she didn’t want to go out with him why didn’t she just say so? Rejection he could handle, being made to feel like an inept junior high school kid he couldn’t.
Mike wrapped up another billing call and waited for the next call to come through. He heard the familiar warning beep on his phone but his computer screen stayed blank, “Thank you for calling Trinity Advance Corporation, I am Mike your Sales and Billing Technologist. How may I be of service to you today?”
“Hi Mike. Are you in the Seattle call center?”
“Uh, no.” Mike checked his phone, sure enough it read EXECUTIVE SUPPORT, “This is the Schenectady call center.”
“Is it Walpurgis night there? Can you tell?”
“I don’t… I’m sorry I don’t know. This is the wrong department. I can’t really help you.” Mike explained.
“Ah. Well these things happen. I’ll try to call back.”
Mike heard the phone clatter down but his caller neglected to actually hang up. Mike heard muffled voices talking, “That was a waste of time. Now hold still, the orifice is weeping in anticipation...”
The Hell? Mike thought as he disconnected the call himself. Another call came hot on the heels of that one, once again his computer’s screen failed to show any data and his phone read EXECUTIVE SUPPORT.
“Thank you for calling Trinity Advance Corporation, I am Mike your Sales and Billing Technologist. How may I be of service to you today?”
The line was alive with squawking and howls. Mike waited for someone to say something and when they didn’t he repeated his greeting. A fresh chorus of piercing cries, growls and the occasional wet slopping sound was the only reply he got.
“I’m sorry,” Mike said, “you’re going to have to call back.”
He disconnected the call and another one beeped through, “Thank you for calling Trinity Advance Corporation, I am Mike your sales Technologist. How may I be of service to you today?”
“Machina improba! Vel mihi ede potum vel mihi redde nummos meos!”
Mike stood up and peered over to the other cubicles and found he wasn’t the only person in his department looking around helplessly. The evening supervisor was shaking his head and talking on the phone to someone. The stats on the call board had been reduced to a nonsense of letters and numbers that flicked and fluttered.
“I’m sorry,” Mike said, “but you have the wrong department. Please call back sir.”
Another call came in, Mike repeated his standard greeting. His screen stayed empty, his phone still read EXECUTIVE SUPPORT.
“Please,” the voice was desperate and furtive, “which fork is the salad fork?”
Mike rolled his eyes.
The rest of his final hour was one bizarre call after another. At midnight he logged out of the SIGIL system got on his coat.
He decided to make a quick pit stop before he headed out to his car. The main bathroom was elegant and sterile looking but no amount of air freshener could ever really conceal that strange sulfurous odor.
There was a man passed out on the bathroom floor, he was scrawny with his long dark coat wrapped around him like a cocoon, his face twitched as he dreamed. His mouth hung open revealing a chipped tooth and flecks of vomit. Mike recognized him. It was Raymond from the Executive Support team
Yes it is in Italian but they make the story easy to follow and what self-respecting geek HASN'T reasd the story already?
Back in my youth I used to consider myself a fan of violent horror films. Heck even now I would recommend MARTYRS and AUDITION as scary, smart and gory horror films.
But that being said I just saw the trailer for the film THE BUNNY GAME and it left me feeling queasy and depressed. I don't plan on seeing it. I feel the same about A SERBIAN FILM.
This is probably just me, a sign of my turning into an old fart but I want horror films to be fun again- I want to see things like RETURN OF THE LIVING DEAD, REANIMATOR and PHANTASM again.
And the more I see of the FRIGHT NIGHT remake fills me with the hope this film will be just that. kind of movie.
Here's hoping David Tennant does Roddy McDowall proud.
(And I think Roddy would have made a pretty good Doctor)
(then again I think the same thing about Jim Varney)
As per THE WASHINGTON TIMES Rep. Michele Bachmann kicked off her presidential campaign on Monday in Waterloo, Iowa, and in one interview surrounding the official event she promised to mimic the spirit of Waterloo's own John Wayne. The only problem, as one eagle-eyed reader notes: Waterloo's John Wayne was not the beloved movie star, but rather John Wayne Gacy, the serial killer. Mrs. Bachmann grew up in Waterloo, and used the town as the backdrop for her campaign announcement, where she told Fox News: “Well what I want them to know is just like, John Wayne was from Waterloo, Iowa. That's the kind of spirit that I have, too.”...
...But by the time the end of the night came, Gillan had perhaps had too much to drink as she appeared to get confused as to where her hotel room was after she was found curled up in a ball, naked, by a fellow hotel guest. According to the Daily Mail, she was ‘whimpering’ in the corridor at around 7am before security eventually arrived to wrap her up in a towel and take her back to her hotel room...
( Of course with my luck I'd get a naked Matthew Waterhouse outside my room...)
The Delaware County Sheriff's Office says deputies responded to a call about a domestic dispute early Saturday, and a man told them his wife was drinking at a wedding and hit him before locking herself in a car. The sheriff says deputies found the woman in a car and tried to talk with her, but she didn't cooperate. He says when deputies tried to remove her, she said she was a breast-feeding mother, then exposed part of her chest and sprayed them with breast milk...
Price Breaks And Heartaches
A journal of retail and failed romance
Al And Tallulah’s Wild Ride
(The following story is true, even the part with the Fresca)
“Al... I think I’m pregnant.”
I don’t know what surprised me more, how well I reacted to hearing those words or the fact that I wasn’t hearing them from a mail order bride.
“Uhm.” I said, “But we we’re, I was wearing…”
“Not every time,” Tallulah said, “and they’re not foolproof.”
I was aware of those things but I had hoped the rhythm method and condoms would perfectly in combination with the fact I masturbated so much that I partially ejaculated dust.
You might say these were strategies that went hand in hand.
On the TV Four To Doomsday was winding its way towards its all-dancing, cricket-ball-in space, shrink-juice ending.
She still wouldn’t look at me, “Are you mad?”
You know I'd once had a guidance councilor ask me the same thing but the context was completely different.
“What are you thinking?” Tallulah asked, “Please say something.”
“I love you,” I said, “we’ll figure this out.... somehow.”
She was two weeks late by the time the second semester of college started up and we had both decided to keep the whole matter a secret until we knew for sure. Tallulah also explained to me that we would have to wait just a little bit longer before we could get an accurate reading from a pregnancy test.
I went through the next week and a half almost woozy with terror and excitement. I had school and work to keep me busy but I called Tallulah at least once a day. Every time we spoke it was like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Had the morning sickness started? Was she getting weird cravings? And most important of all how the Hell was I going to take care of a wife and baby when I couldn’t balance a checkbook or tell detergent from fabric softener?
It was enough to drive a man to drink.
I had found a bottle in the back of the refrigerator. I was sure it was one of my grandmother's but I was also sure she wouldn't mind that I had taken it without asking. I smuggled it into my room- along with some leftovers and an entire box of chocolate chip cookies.
Just thinking about the possibility of a bouncing baby Bruno made me all the more self-conscious of the way I was living.
But how was I living? Out of my parents’ pockets that’s how. And my grandmother's pocket. And my great grandmother's pocket. And did I mention that my uncle paid for my college textbooks?
And while we're at it lets not forget that my Dad was footing the entire bill for college. If it had been up to me to pay for classes all hope of a higher education would have been washed away in a tide of impulse purchases and take out food.
Sequestered in the relative privacy of my room I opened the chilled glass bottle and started drinking from it. My first sips were wincing and tentative but it didn't take long for me to start taking long swigs every few minutes. I only threw up in my mouth a few times but the cookies were more then enough to wash the taste away.
I had already decided that if Tallulah was pregnant I was going to marry her, assuming of course that she wanted to marry me, and that we could both get a full day off from work. I was sure Tallulah’s parents would be furious at this turn of events but I knew I wouldn’t have much trouble on my end of things. Shotgun weddings were so common in our family that we got a bulk discount on shells.
Please don't think I had made these decisions out of nothing more than a sense of honor or responsibility. I was crazy about the girl, I said it I was going to love her forever and I had meant it.
Still my mind kept coming back to the question of how I could support a wife and kid while keeping my own dreams alive. All the decent paying jobs I knew were either physical or intellectual labors.
Neither my body or mind were particularly skilled so that limited my options considerably but I was determined to do the right thing. But who could I turn to for advice in this my time of need?
I took another hard pull from the bottle as I considered. I couldn't speak to my father, all I would get was a condemnation and a lecture and I couldn't speak to my mother, all I would get was disappointment and tears and I certainly couldn't talk to my grandmother because all I would get was some Bactine and a bent up wire hanger
There was a knock at the door and my brother was in my room before I could hide the bottle.
“Hi P-P-” I stammered with surprise, “Hi Phil.”
“Yeah. Whatever.” He was wearing his ragged jeans and workboots, his leather coat was slung over one arm. “Can I borrow your car or... What are you doing Al?”
“I'm just... I was...”
He grabbed the bottle and looked it over, “Whiskey Sour mix?”
“Yeah. It isn't very strong. I don't even feel dizzy.”
He nodded, “Is that so?”
I nodded back, “So much for forgetting my problems.”
“Problems?” he handed the bottle back to me, “What kind of problems? You still upset they fired that Doctor Who with the crazy coat?”
“Yes but that's not what I'm upset about right now.”
Phil sat down beside me, “What's wrong? Someone giving you trouble?”
One of the many screwy aspects of my relationship with my brother was that for all our feuding and fighting he wouldn't stand for anyone picking on me.
Apparently he wanted to keep it in the family.
“No.” I said, “There's no one giving me trouble. It's just that... you can keep a secret right?”
“Sure, sure. I didn't tell anyone when Mom accidentally spilled orange juice on your comic collection.”
He waved his hand, “Don't worry about it. Just tell me what's wrong.”
“It’s my girlfriend…”
“Oh I knew it! She’s a dude isn’t she?”
“She is not. In fact I think she’s pregnant.” It felt weird to blurt it out like that.
I sighed, “Oh yes.”
“Wow!” He said, “You’re fucked.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“You gotta get out of town.” He said, “Join the Army maybe.”
I had to laugh at that, “I couldn’t even get into the KISS Army.”
“Maybe they got like a nerd brigade or somethin’.”
“You know I used to wonder why we didn’t talk anymore,” I took another drink from the bottle, “now I remember why. And yes you can borrow my car, I’m in no shape to drive.”
“Yeah.” He grabbed my car keys from the dresser, “About that, you’re drinking whiskey sour mix.”
“I know but like I said it doesn’t have much of a kick to it.”
My brother’s tone was almost pitying, “Whiskey sour mix is just the mix, the booze isn’t included.”
“What? But it says whiskey sour mix.”
“Yeah it’s the mix. It’s like a batteries aren’t included kind of thing. Don’t they teach you anything in college?”
I have to say that I found humiliation far more dizzying than whiskey sour mix. Alone in my room again I spent a few minutes cursing my stupidity, then I realized that I could probably still get drunk if I swiped one of those bottles of Fresca I had seen in the upstairs fridge.