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Full-Metal Orgasm Issue 69001ăƒťSpring 2012 PDF edition

SAMPLER


Full-Metal Orgasm Issue 69001ăƒťSpring 2012 Editor & Publisher Brent Millis sexpunksexfi@gmail.com This magazine contains works of fiction. All people, places, and events depicted therein are fictional and not meant to resemble any actual people, places, or events unless otherwise specified. All work copyright to their respective authors. All rights reserved. Full-Metal Orgasm eMagazine is published thrice yearly by Brent Millis. This publication may not be reproduced in whole or in part without express written consent of the publisher, except for brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews. All rights reserved. Copyright Š 2012. Visit FMO at http://sexpunk.tumblr.com. Contact: sexpunksexfi@gmail.com.


Original cover work by Toshio Maeda. All rights reserved. Copyright Š 2012.


THIS IS A SAMPLER ONLY. TO PURCHASE A FULL COPY, PLEASE CONTACT sexpunksexfi@gmail.com. THANK YOU. Index Introduction Premature Editorulation Dedication and Gratitude Short essay A Word on Sexpunk Fiction Sexualeyes – MT Starkey Cyborgasm Stompfuck – E. A. Black Jizzemboweler – Made in DNA The Companion – D.L. Warner Little Death – James 'Grim' Desborough Night of the Mother – Rick Moore Espionage Dolls – Glynn Barrass The Wasters – John Trevillian The G-Spot Day of the Wang – Scott Corum Community Orgy Hardcore Information Wallpaper NexT issue / Next tIssue


Introduction "Sexualeyes" by MT Starkey is a brutal look at the future of product testing in a dystopian, cutthroat society. Very post-cyberpunk. "Cyborgasm Stompfuck" by E. A. Black delves into the dark side of BDSM and gynoid love-hate relationships in the near future. "Jizzemboweler" by Made in DNA is the epitome of sexpunk flash fiction; a murderous serial killer on the loose in the Floating World meets his match in a tongue-in-cheek romp. "The Companion", by D.L. Warner, is a yaoi story of Micha, a convict sent to an off-world colony to be housekeeper and 'wife' to his new Owner, a big man named Marcus. While it does not contain the levels of hyperviolence or the sexuality that Full-Metal Orgasm strives to present, as editor, I saw the story as an opportunity to cultivate an image. FMO is an eMagazine about sex and sexuality in all aspects. What I don't want is for folks to think that all they are going to find in the pages of this publication is "good ol' boy" tits-and-ass with rivers of misogynistic spunk scenes. No. FMO is about equal opportunity in bodily fluids and orgasms. So that's the beauty of this story, and while I do wish future submissions of yaoi work to be just as hyperviolent and sexual as other work you will find in this publication, I quite welcome it as-is, if that pleases the readers. "Little Death" by James 'Grim' Desborough tells the story of an assassin who is quite literally in love with his gun. "Night of the Mother" by Rick Moore will gouge your brain out with its gore-laced story of extra dimensional demons that love to fuck sweet human pussy. Tres Toshio Maeda. "Espionage Dolls" by Glynn Barrass joins his Cosplay Twins characters on an adventure to steal an alien lifeform from undead cosmonauts. "The Wasters" by John Trevillian is a part of his acclaimed A-Men series of novels and short stories. In the future where the Earth is little more than a wasteland, everyone wants to get to Heaven, including Jack, the Nowhereman. And he'll do anything and anyone to get there. Also don't miss "Day of the Wang", this issue's guest fiction piece by Hot Chicks RPG creator/publisher Scott Corum, the Community Orgy, the editorial section and all the other wadded tissues with their hidden treasures of information waiting to be discovered.


Premature Editorulation It's just a couple of days before publication and I am sitting reading through 20+ year-old copies of Heavy Metal magazine to get ideas for this editor's column. I'll be honest, I don't have a clue. More to the point, I'm really nervous. I suppose the proper thing to do would be to welcome you. But you'd expect that. I guess it's only proper though. What I definitely should do is thank you for purchasing this issue. It's the premiere issue窶電espite the funky issue number of 69001. (That's just me being clever. Or so I think.) So what is Full-Metal Orgasm? Hardcore sex and hyperviolence in prose fiction. That's the short definition, and I think it suits well. That said, I don't want to compartmentalize my own publication. My hope is that there will be all kinds of work submitted to and published in these pages in the years to come. What you should know most of all is that FMO is about imagination, exploration, entertainment and release. So above all, this is a publication meant to be enjoyed. I will unabashedly admit that publications like Heavy Metal, 2000 AD, and Penhouse Comix (no longer published) have been great inspirations to this one. What I don't want you to think is that I am copying them. First and foremost, while I will try to bring you the best covers possible, this is not an illustrated publication. FMO will not be host to comics, at least not in the foreseeable future. The reasons are simple. Why on earth would I take on powerhouses like the above-mentioned when they are already doing such a fantastic job? And two, I'm a prose author myself. I'm doing what I know best. So if you are ready, let's get his orgy started. Brent Millis Japan May 2012


Dedication and Gratitude It is with my deepest gratitude that I dedicate this issue (#69001–the premiere) of Full-Metal Orgasm to the following folks (in no particular order) who so generously contributed to the eMagazine's indiegogo fundraising campaign. John Trevillian Mistress Clarity Guy Anthony De Marco Holly Galpin S.T. Cartledge Trent Zelazny Bill Olver Ryan S. Fortney Sean D. Daily Mock Wombat Lady Anonymous Kaolin Fire


A Word on Sexpunk Sexpunk is battle-sex: war waged with one's genitals; orgasm as the ultimate defeat. Nipples are Frankenstein's bolts with enough voltage to jumpstart rocket-cock, and sphincters are black holes waiting to devour the very essence of what or whomever might traverse too closely. As a subgenre of fiction, sexpunk is down, dirty and direct. It's shock-sex meant to turn the reader on with its nasty, no-punches-pulled attitude. It's hardcore–triple-X in nature and unapologetic. While sexpunk carries the DNA of erotica (its classier cousin with its well-observed limits), it doesn't rely on euphemism and prolonged scenes of sexual romance in which characters profess undying love. Sexpunk is about entertainment. It is not 'literature' and it's not meant to be a deep commentary on society. (Though one should never discount the possibility). Full-Metal Orgasm is sexpunk. So let the fuck juices flow.


Sexualeyes MT Starkey "Aren't you worried about people hearing him?" said the man that Andrew Daly could actually see out of his good eye. Though tied down and missing a great deal of his face, the struggle he managed to put up was nothing less than formidable. It could have been five minutes or five weeks ago, but the last thing Daly remembered was testing his new eye implants on a very attractive and friendly woman in the toilets of a very exclusive nightclub. Another voice came from his blind side. "Not really. We're too deep underground. Besides, anybody that comes to this part of town is doing something just as illegal, or worse. Nobody will bother us. Right, Daly?" "Hwuggghrlll!" The pain was what Daly might have expected, if told that one of his employers' rivals were to capture him and rip his eye out. Unfortunately for him, it wasn't standard practice for Staple6 Implants Inc. to warn their guinea pigs about such possibilities. A small wooden block sat in his mouth, and was quickly replaced each time he bit through it. So far, he was up to seven. "I'm very sorry about the discomfort, young man. I'd have gladly used anaesthetic if time permitted, but my deadline is very tight." The pain intensified as he felt a foreign object being forced through the side of his eye socket and into his frontal sinus cavity. His body seized with nervous overload from the instrument dragging against the raw flesh in his face. Neuralware screeched as connections collapsed and surged in his brain. Every piece of equipment in his head shouted alerts and errors which began to fry nerves and brain cells. The sensation of mental meltdown was expressed by a muffled scream as the seventh block was turned to splinters. He heard the voice again as his scream died out. "Right, that's done. The left eye unit now, Herman." The agony subsided enough that he could focus a little and take in his surroundings. Though his neuralware was damaged, it still allowed him to record the environment. The ceiling was a light brown, with a trio of neon tubes in the centre illuminating the room. The bed was a queen-size with a pale green laminex headboard. Patches of rust appeared on its frame where the old white paint had flaked off. Daly was strapped to the bed with nylon rope, bound by the wrists and ankles and three times across the torso. He could feel pressure just behind his temples, below the ears and on his scalp from a brace which held his head still. Sticky, thick blood covered his face, kept from drying by terror-induced sweat. Into his blurred vision stepped the man responsible for his situation. A crooked smirk could be made out behind the surgeon's mask, though the eyes were all business. "Don't worry," said the man behind the mask, "now that I know where they were installed, I'll find the second one much faster." Within a minute the surgeon had removed his eye, taken the sensors from the optic nerve, jammed forceps into the other frontal sinus cavity to disconnect the computer and finally, removed that computer. Daly tried to break the bonds, fracturing a wrist as he struggled. With a shudder, he finally succumbed to the trauma of having his eyes ripped out. Herman cut the corpse free and rolled him off the bed. "This is it. No more jobs, no more favours, no more tests. I do this, then my debt to you is paid and you give my brother the operation that he needs."


"That's the deal, and I intend to fulfil it." lied Preston, cleaning the same scalpel that would never be used to operate on Herman's brother. "Tarps are in that box. Cover the bed and let's get to work." He opened his kit and drew from it a syringe. "Are you sure you haven't eaten in the last 24 hours?" "Not a scrap. I've followed all of your instructions except for shaving off my eyebrows." Herman ripped the sheets from the bed and threw the tarps over. "Good, good. Well don't worry, you'll be very hungry after you wake up but I have food organised. Strip down to the waist, shave off your eyebrows and let's get to work." Herman went over to the corner and looked at himself in the mirror there. Below was a sink with a razor, brush and shaving cream. "Jesus, all this just for a pair of eye implants." +++ CONTINUED IN FULL VERSION MT Starkey chose to spend his life writing stories for two reasons–One: he likes it. Two: he doesn't want to work for a living. Most of what he writes is imagined into existence when he's somewhere he doesn't want to be, usually at work. Science fiction rates among his top five obsessions at any one time, a list which can also include double entendres, PS3, Batman, revenge fantasies, evolution, Westerns, gibberish, H.P. Lovecraft, filth, British sitcoms, mythology, gallows humour and lots of other stuff. He resides in Victoria, a state of Australia that bears the Helmeted Honeyeater as one of its emblems. If you find yourself in the Facebook region of cyberspace, by all means check out his page MT Starkey Short Stories. https://www.facebook.com/pages/MT-Starkey-Short-Stories/121114394587006


Cyborgasm Stompfuck E. A. Black It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane. – Philip K. Dick "Get on the bed, bitch." Aemada's visual meter rating Alan's violent impulses crept into the red zone. She backed up a step, both terrified and thrilled. He's in one of his moods. If I don't do what he says he'll break my arms again. She smiled, glaring at him through her blue bangs, and dug in the heels of her fuck-me pumps. Lifting her chin, she stared down her nose at his beet red face, towering over him at 6'1". Dwarfed in her shadow, Alan shook with rage. She plastered that smile on her face, lips taut, humorless. Alan Petrovich was an ugly little walnut of a man who overcompensated for a tiny dick and the social graces of a howler monkey by beating her to a bloody stump at least four times per week. That's what passed for sex between the two of them. She deserved it. If she wouldn't piss him off and do what he said, he wouldn't have a reason to beat the wire casings out of her. With each swing and each punch, arousal rose from deep within her, matched only by her fearful cowering in the corner when he kicked her. "What happened to you today?" She kept her voice low and steady, enough to get a rise out of him. When he lost control it made the sex more exciting. Sex with Alan was normally Hump 'N Dump but when she pushed his buttons he sometimes choked her or whipped her with his cat o' nine tails; the one with the metal spikes at the tips. Her torn flesh and the pain took her mind off her sorry state of living. "Did that cunt Belinda emasculate you in front of everyone again in another business meeting?" Egg him on. Make him hit you. You know you want it. "I said get on the bed, Aemada." Her name was an acronym for Anadyne Extreme Model-A D-cup A-intelligence; her true name, as synthetic and sterile as she. Her manufacturer, Anadyne Industries and its CEO Justin Van Meter, named her Katrina but Alan preferred to call her by her model acronym, refusing to allow her any smidgen of individuality or humanity. Alan worked in Research and Development. In honor of two decades of hard work, Van Meter rewarded him with the latest top-of-the-line sexbot. At least, she was top-of-the-line six years ago. Now, she was old news. Her meter flashed red warning lights, each flash increasing in speed as he wrapped his hands around her neck. She refused to submit to him, unlike the other times. Their sex was rough when she backed down but much more intense and exciting when she resisted. Yes, choke me you sick bastard. Is that all you got? Put your spine into it! "I said get on the bed!" Alan dug his thumbs into the indentation at the base of her throat. It hurt like hell. She wanted more. "Go to Hell. You aren't man enough to please me. You aren't man enough to please any woman. Keep trying, if you can get it up." She gritted her teeth as she spoke, jaw locked, lips enunciating, spittle flying in his face. Alan requested a salivating sexbot to make her more realistic but she recalled with glee the first time she spat on him. He wasn't expecting that, the impotent bastard. Her emotion meter registered so much loathing she wondered if the feeling was real. "You're programmed to do as I tell you so get on that bed if you know what's good for you."


"You programmed me to make independent decisions and have my own thoughts. You told me you were bored with the older models so you bought me because I could think for myself." "Funny you should say that." A leer cracked across his hard face. She glanced at her arm and counted the gashes. Six, the last one she made last week. Six long years under his tender, loving care, if you could call broken bones, steel spikes fired into her cranial pan with a nail gun, and electrocuted power packs love. She spent as much time in a repair shop as she had in his spreader bars. The only reason she didn't die was because she couldn't. His fist cracked her jaw so quickly she didn't feel the pain until a moment or two after he dislodged a few teeth. The rush of pleasure running through her circuitry sent her cyber-heart fluttering. She fell backwards on the bed. Please, give me more. I deserve it. No one else will have me because I'm old and out of shape. If Alan didn't want me I'd be on a rubbish heap by now. She sneered at him, hoping to get a rise out of him. "Wanna do a few Charlie Sheen push-ups on my face, don't you big boy? Good thing I have an aluminum bronze skull otherwise you'd have to pay extra for repairs." Sadly her arm bones were made of a more flexible honeycomb steel alloy. He remembered since he grabbed her above her wrists and pinned her to the bed with one knee. He could snap her arms in two at that sensitive spot where the excruciating pain would make her pass out. What bliss that would be! "I have a surprise for you, you tired old roboho. You're past your sell-by date. Out of fashion. Expired and ready for the rubbish heap." A ripple of dread washed over her. Had he read her mind? He never talked like that before. What did he mean? He'd voiced similar thoughts in the past, telling her she was old and ugly, but today he sounded much more serious than ever before. He held one of her wrists to the O-ring at the top of the bed and tied her fast with garbage zip ties. Garbage, like I am. She clawed his face with her free hand, aiming for his eyes, and scraped his sun-damaged, wrinkled skin with her fingernails. Her visual meter registered her lust quotient, which took a sharp rise at the sight and smell of his blood. She hated him so much she stretched her fingers to rend the flesh from his puffy face. She loathed herself even more. Could she hate and loathe? Where did those emotions come from? Did Alan program her this way to make her feel miserable all the time? He balled his fist and punched her across the face twice. Her neck cracked. It sounded like celery stalks snapping. His violence quotient rose to the peak of red, about where it had to be before he grew an erection. Then he tied her free arm to the other O-ring, leaving her arms restrained several feet farther apart than what she was used to. "You're hurting me too much. Put my arms closer together." "What's it to you? You're a bot. I can do anything I like." "But I feel. I have emotions. You're going too far. What's wrong with you? You're acting strange." "Nothing's wrong with me. You're the one with the problems. Why have you been talking about feelings lately? You have no feelings. Only programmed reactions." Depression stabbed at ‌ at what? Her soul? If she didn't have emotions, if they were only electrical impulses coming from her power pack, why did they feel so real? Why did she feel as human as he did? When he first brought her home six years ago she wanted to do nothing more than please him, per her programming. At first, pleasing him


was exactly what she did. She lay on her back while he stuck electrodes to her nipples and sent enticing shocks through her torso. He stompfucked her with a metal dildo he stuck to one of his old work boots, so when he wanted to kick the living hell out of her and anally fuck her at the same time he could do it. And she enjoyed it. She was programmed to enjoy it. Then her learning and emotion chips kicked in and everything changed. +++ CONTINUED IN FULL VERSION E. A. Black lives on the northeastern coast of Massachusetts (USA) in the middle of Lovecraft country. Her dark fiction and horror have appeared in "Kizuna: Fiction For Japan", "Demon Lovers: A Succubus And Incubus Anthology", and "Stupefying Stories, Nov. 2011". A new story shall soon appear in the "A Splintered Mirage" anthology. She also writes erotic fiction under the pseudonym Elizabeth Black. http://eablack-writer.blogspot.com/ & https://www.facebook.com/elizabethablack


Jizzemboweler Made in DNA "Permission tat please." The man smiled at the female security officer guarding the gate of the Floating World and nodded, "Of course." Unzipping his trousers, he pulled out his pecker. She cupped his cock from underneath in a warm hand and placed her other atop the tattoo there. The scanner in her palm flashed a blue-white light outlining his dick. He moved to redress, but the officer kept his dick in firm hold. He froze. One wrong move and she'd send a thousand volts through it with her TEzer. "Quite weighty." A trace of suspicion in her voice. She hefted several times, letting the meat slap against the flesh of her palm. With cool, practiced calm, he blushed, "Ma'am. I do believe I'm flustered." The meat in her hand increased as the flow of blood brought on a partial erection. She dropped his dick with a glare in her eye and signaled for him to dress. He did so, tipped his hat and started through the large, wooden gate. On the other side, the ruckus of weekend festivities burst to life with crowds of men and women eager to dive into the varied sexual delights offered along tightly grid-set streets of the red-light district. Hologram punters called out to passers-by, touting their wares of colorfully-clothed indentured sex slaves encaged in wooden-barred verandas. As he walked, he employed Facial Tectonic chips to alter his appearance in Have-we-met-before? proportions. Over fifty pre-programmed disguises. Calling up a tagged AR overlap of the entire area in his right eye, he perused the data of each prostitute house as he passed until he finally decided upon one he had not yet visited–The Blossoming Lotus. It would be here. It was decided deep within his heart. This is where he must perform the act. Behind the wooden slats sat a row of beautiful women, a row of beautiful men and a row shared by androids and SynthFucks. He chose a woman from the front row with long hair that cascaded down over her robes and a blacklight smile. Paying in virtual tokens he'd purchased near the gate, he removed his shoes and entered the brothel where upon he was greeted by an ageless woman in a deep purple kimono. Smoke from a cigarette in a long-stemmed holder wreathed her coifed hair. She bowed in greeting, thanking him in a long torrent of polite language wrapped greed and faux desire. She continued spewing a memorized spiel that plied the history of the house to exalted heights of absurdity until the girl he had chosen appeared from behind a panel. The houses of the Floating World were rife with discreet passages and rooms to allow for seamless, timely entrances when tea or fuck toys were called for. The girl bowed and greeted him as her mistress had, and bid the man follow her. Though the rooms were all equipped with soundproofing, an undertone of chiptune-shamisen white noise plunked tastefully through the narrow, panel-lined halls. Along which the samurai elite and their lovers jerked in and out of staccato sexual acts by overlapping high-res ukiyo-e images.


They entered her sparse quarters where he immediately began to remove his clothes. "If you would like–" "No," he interrupted her. "I appreciate it, but the truth is, I am only interested in fucking." She bowed in acknowledgement. The shower was a steamy affair of nanite-laced hot water that cleansed them both and checked for diseases. Upon returning to the main chamber, she led him to a futon. Running a two slender fingers up from underneath his scrotum, she tickle-caressed his balls, bringing his cock to rock-hard perfection. Her mouth closed over his meat in a wet, sultry heat he closed his eyes to. Her tongue slipped over his head, encircling it, while her hand continued to fondle his nuts. She mixed it all with timely administrations of slight teeth gratings that sent panic-tainted electric excitement through him. His cock bulged, growing until he felt the vein-laced, porous meat inside might burst from its skin. Finally, he could hold his buildup back no more. She brought him to climax. His wad shot hard and fast, filling her mouth with hot jizz she eagerly swallowed. Unlike most girls though, she did not immediately remove his cock from her mouth. Just the opposite, her ministrations intensified after his ejaculation. Her hand worked his shaft in an urgent flurry of fingers while her tongue flickered over the underside of his head. It was a sensation he had yet to encounter in any sexual tryst thus far. The whole of his cock and groin was overwhelmed by the sensation of intense pinprickle–the feeling of blood returning to a limb that had fallen asleep. His desire for her to continue just barely overrode his desire for her to stop. But as he closed on a second climax, he forcefully extracted himself from her. The time had come to act. Not wasting movement, he walked around behind her seated figure and playfully smacked her on her firm but somewhat smallish ass. "Up," he demanded. She obeyed, raising her rump. He pushed her head and upper body down until her upper body was at complete rest and stood in a crouched position. Directing his erect cock downward, he placed it against her poophole, which had been whetted by juices flowing from her pussy, and plunged in. She cooed in pleasure. Pleasure now, pain later, death eventual. It was nothing personal. Just something he had to do. It would be painful, but it would be mercifully swift. Most women passed out from shock early on, bleeding to death in an unconscious state. Engaging his AR again, one by one, he superimposed the other Floating World prostitutes he had dispatched over the years over her form. Their faux moans of pleasure harmonized with this woman's in a symphony of impending death. For when he blew his wad this second time, the bladed drill built into his dick would open and shred her colon. After which, the hydraulics in his abdomen would push his cock of death into her stomach. The thought of it brought his fuck-rage potentials up until he was on the verge of orgasm once more. Just as buildup threatened to cascade, his cock was forcefully squeezed to a stop mid-stroke. He pushed back in; he was free. Back out; he could not move. Moreover, a crushing pressure was setting in. Panic washed over him. Pushed back in... No go... He was stuck. Completely! He struggled to remove himself from the


whore's ass, but it was too late. Laughter rose from the floor. Her voice was cool and dangerous, "Chinese Sphincter Trap, Mr Dester Lent." She turned to look up at him. "Oh yes, I know who you are. And I'm Officer Momojiri of Public Security, Pleasure Police Division." Her lovely tits began spinning, flashing a perfect shade of cherry red. "You're under arrest for the murder of fifty-seven prostitutes in the Floating World." A holo-tat badge and number appeared on her left ass cheek, while a list charges against Lent, including the names of the women he'd slaughtered, scrolled on her right. "Cunt!" "Not quite," she smiled. Overriding the orgasm trigger, Lent started the drill. But not before Officer Momojiri activated her Anal Black Hole and The Driller Killer was sucked beyond her event horizon. Made in DNA is an expat American living in Japan with his wife and three small children. A genre author, he publishes sexpunk science fiction (hardcore sex and hyper-violence). His titles include Bukkake Brawl, "de Sade Assassins", "Slug Orgy", and three non-sexpunk titles–"Blood and Bullets", Kizuna: Fiction for Japan (a charity anthology benefitting the orphans of Tohoku) and a Cthulhu cyberpunk short entitled "Red Sky at Morning". "Jizzemboweler" is a slightly retooled version of a short originally titled "The Little Death", a sexpunk short written for Machete Girl Magazine. http://sexpunk.tumblr.com & http://amzn.to/madeindna


The Companion D.L. Warner Micah was fucked. There was no doubt about that. The questions that howled through his mind as he sat handcuffed in that cell were when it would happen and how bad it would be. His plan wasn't what went wrong. His plans never went wrong. They were ratted out. Micah knew who it was. One of their group had been missing that night. It could only have been Felix. He always was a punk, but he was Caleb's boy. And Caleb had the muscle Micah needed, so he shut up about what a punk Felix always was. At least Caleb was fucked, too. But that didn't make Micah feel any better. Micah didn't know how long he has sat in that cold, metal room on the cold, metal bench. He couldn't hear anything beyond the odd clanging of a cell door down the corridor. He had no idea where they took Caleb. Hopefully, it was to a hospital. The idiot actually fought the cops. Micah had never seen guys that big before. He went to the floor with his hands on his head as soon as they burst into the storeroom. It had been drummed into his skull by the older boys who ran the streets in his neighborhood. And he had seen it often enough first hand. The cops didn't take any lip. No one ever got away with swinging at one. The smart play was to get on the ground and hope they didn't decided to stomp his head until the brains splattered. Micah realized that that the room where he admitted to his identity in front of some man in a black suit had been the courtroom. A security camera feed of the store they were robbing was played, and he pointed himself out when asked. The man banged a gavel, telling him he was guilty. Micah was then lead to the little cell with the metal bench. He didn't even have a chance to defend himself. Wasn't hunger a defense? None of that mattered. He was fucked. After all that work and all that risk to be more valuable than some older guy's butt buddy, someone was going to have his ass in jail. The rape would involve quite a beating, because Micah planned to fight hard enough to make someone kill him. Despair was swallowing him whole. He was even convinced that the staff was sizing him up for someone. That was the only way to explain that so called search and medical exam. It wasn't paranoia on Micah's part. Gangs were known to have some prison staff in their pockets. By the time a key turned in the lock to his cell door, Micah was about to come out of his skin. He fully expected some uniformed goons to rush in and carry him away to some well-connected and horny thug. The man who entered his cell was tall but slight with snowy white hair and kind brown eyes. The guard standing behind him was imposing but not as terrifying as the cops had been. "My name is Nelson," he said in a calm voice. "Come with me, Micah." There wasn't really any choice but to follow the man. That guard didn't look friendly. Still, Micah liked Nelson's tone. He obediently got to his feet and shuffled after him in his jail-issued plastic slippers down the long, glaringly-lit corridor to a door marked 'Interview Room #3'. For a while, Micah sat on a heavy, metal chair and watched Nelson scan a fairly thick file. "Would you like some water?" Nelson asked. "Yes, please," Micah replied. He was very surprised. Though he was very thirsty, he never even thought of asking for some of the water in the pitcher on the table. He


still watched incredulously as Nelson poured him a cup then indicated that he should pick it up and drink. "I am your counsel," Nelson said as Micah drank the cool, sweet water. "I'm here to guide you through the legal process." "I get counsel?" Micah asked. He was very surprised. "Hasn't everything been decided?" Nelson smiled. "Typically, yes. Our laws are very strict. Theft of any sort means a lengthy and severe penalty. However, if the accused meets certain criteria, he can be assigned counsel to help him decide what kind of sentencing to take." "What criteria do I meet?" Micah asked. He was very confused. "I'm a thief. A well-known thief." "True. You were quite elusive and vexing to the police for a long while," Nelson agreed. "Considerable effort and expense were brought to bear to capture you and your compatriots in the act." "Yeah, I hope Felix got a whole lot that he can then choke on," Micah muttered. Nelson chuckled though he seemed sympathetic. "You are fortunate that your crimes have never involved violence or drugs. This opens the possibility for more sentencing options that don't involve years of hard labor or a maximum security prison. I must first ask a difficult question." "Sure, why not?" "We found something during your physical that is quite rare in one your age who has lived the life you've been leading," Nelson continued. "Are you a virgin?" Micah felt his entire face grow hot with embarrassment. He gaped at Mr. Nelson who was looking at him impassively. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?" He demanded. He almost stood up, but the guard was there to place a heavy, discouraging hand on one shoulder. "It is extremely important, Micah," Nelson replied gently. "It can mean the difference between a life of relative safety and even comfort and one of a great deal of pain and suffering. This is not a matter of idle curiosity." "I've never had sex with anyone...ever," Micah replied very quietly. "That's incredible. You're so..." "I'm really pretty, I know," Micah muttered. "I've had to fight my whole life to keep people from trying anything I didn't want. And I wouldn't do anything with anyone like even kiss because of where it might lead. I'm a freak–22 and never been even kissed." "I think you were very wise, Micah," Nelson said with a kind smile. "You're far more than pretty. And once you've eaten enough to fill out a little, you will be extraordinary." "You feed people well in prison?" Micah asked, thoroughly confused. That was not what he had heard at all. Food there was supposed to be even more scarce and thus more costly than on the street. "We feed certain prisoners well," Nelson said. "If you accept something called a Homesteader sentence, you will be housed in a private wing of the prison and protected from predators while you await transport to a Homestead Colony." Micah had heard of those. They were colonies on nearby moons where the land was farm-able and the water was uncontaminated. "What would I do in a Homesteader Colony? And what does that have to do with


my being a virgin?" Micah asked. "You would be a companion for one of the farmers," Nelson replied. "While you await transport, you would be trained to cook and keep house." "And I'd have to let him fuck me," Micah added ruefully. "Basically, yes," Nelson replied. "The positive side of this sentence is that it is only for five years. The Homesteaders are away from their residences in the colony for periods of time tending to their land. You would be on your own in a safe environment quite often. Most of the colonists allow their companions to read or enjoy other diversions in their absence. The alternative is this." Nelson pressed a button on the table. A panel on the wall slid up to reveal a view screen. A random feed from any of the cameras revealed some terrible beat downs and one gang rape. That poor bastard was living Micah's recurring nightmare–being held down while someone was fucking his mouth and another his ass with a crowd waiting to take their turn. "How do they let this go on?" Micah asked in dismay. "The warden won't risk guards to save inmates who'll be doing the same thing to some other poor schmuck the next day," Nelson said. "There's not much we can do." For the first time, Micah sensed that Nelson wasn't quite leveling with him. But it didn't really matter. "I get the point," Micah muttered. "Look, I've heard a lot about what goes on in places like this. How are you going to keep me a virgin until I get to a colony?" "If you agree to this sentence, we will take you to Medical and have you fitted with, for lack of a better term, a chastity belt that only the Homesteader will be able to remove." Micah frowned, then laughed nervously. "How the hell does that work?" Nelson laughed as well. "It's a flexible garment that is fitted in such a way that you can go to the bathroom and stay clean and dry, but it prevents any kind of sexual contact." "Who designs something like that?" Micah demanded, shaking his head. "Not an unreasonable question," Nelson replied with a smile. "It was made to guarantee that females remain faithful to their designated mates. Otherwise, there is no guaranteeing that the bloodline is true. For males like you, such a garment means that you are free of disease, and you would truly belong to your Homesteader." "Would I be able to jack off?" "I'm afraid not, Micah." "I'd probably be too stressed out to anyway," Micah muttered. "What do I have to do for this Homesteader sentence?" "A very smart decision, young man," Nelson said. "Just read and sign the contracts. The guard and I will witness them. We're also being recorded." Micah was relieved that the contracts were written very simply. He understood them without much help from Nelson. Once they were signed, he was taken back to Medical. After a shower under wonderfully hot, strong spray with real soap and shampoo, Micah endured being fitted for the chastity garment. He was red faced the entire time, but it wasn't so bad. The garment was like underwear. It was soft and very flexible, but it couldn't be cut or torn. Micah could fit his cock in a sleeve in the front. There were openings that allowed him to go to the bathroom but wouldn't allow anything else. Things can go out but not in was how Nelson explained it. Somehow, the


fabric breathed so he could get dry after a wash down there or a shower. "The combination on the waistband lock is jumbled after it is locked in place," Nelson said. "No one here can unlock it. When you are chosen, a new combination code will be transmitted so you're owner can unlock it." Micah still wore a uniform with his number on it, but these clothes were thicker, softer and warmer than the ones in the regular jail. He had real shoes that slipped on over some warm socks. The only down side to that whole deal was the shock collar. It was made of the same kind of soft, flexible fabric and could not be removed until his entire sentence was served. "No one is to put a bruise on you as you will be someone else's property," Nelson explained. "But that doesn't mean you can't be disciplined for breaking the rules." "What does this thing do?" "It causes a lot of pain but does no physical damage," Nelson replied. "We'll have to test it, Micah," a nurse said. Even after taking a deep breath and bracing himself, Micah was knocked to the floor from the intense, searing pain that drenched his body. He was still screaming after they'd switched it off. Nelson and the nurse carefully helped him up to unsteady feet. "Sorry, son. That had to be done," Nelson said. "But it should be the only time." Micah nodded as he wiped tears from his eyes. He didn't trust himself to speak. Nelson handed him off to someone called a Pod Supervisor at the end of the fittings. "You are a bright, attractive and appealing young man," Nelson said. "You have all you need to make this sentence work for you. Just follow the rules, and you'll avoid a hell hole." "I will, sir. Thank you," Micah managed. "My name is Sievert," the supervisor said as they traveled down one lengthy corridor to another. He was beefier than Nelson, but seemed to be the same age. He was also as mellow though Micah sensed an edge to his manner. "Let's get something straight. I like working the Homesteader Wing. It's way quieter and much safer than gen pop. I don't plan to let anyone screw that up for me. Understand?" "Yes, sir," Micah said. "I don't want any part of gen pop either." "Good. You probably won't be here long," he said with a sidelong glance. "You're hot enough to get picked as soon as you're processed. I'll have to fast track your training. Can you cook?" "A little," Micah replied with a shrug. "I've made myself eggs when I could get them and burgers. I can peel potatoes and cut onions." "That's a good start. You probably won't set yourself on fire or open a vein," Sievert muttered. "Really?" Micah asked with a chuckle. Sievert chuckled, too. "You have no idea. Look, the rules are simple and the same as when you go to the Colony. Never waste food. Never horde food. Keep everything neat, and don't start any fights. And never try to escape. The pods look low security, but you are in fact, under very heavy surveillance, because you are a valuable asset." "I get that, sir," Micah said sincerely. "I won't cause any problems." "I saw your file. You're pretty bright," Sievert said. "Some of your podmates aren't. Don't listen to them. In fact, you're better off keeping to yourself. None of you are going to the same Colony anyway."


"I'll watch myself, sir," Micah said. By then, they had reached a set of doors. Sievert swiped an ID card and submitted to a retinal scan. That lead to an area with a pair of guards who checked Sievert's ID and scan and Micah's new ID then scanned his hand prints. They were then allowed through another set of doors. Micah noticed the difference right away. The light was warmer. The air didn't smell of disinfectant. The walls weren't metal or painted green. They were a brighter, happier color. About a dozen cells were off a main control area. Micah could see what looked like a large kitchen and a laundry room. There was a rec area with a TV and a shelf of books. "The others are in the exercise yard," Sievert said. "Let me give you a tour and get you settled." They started in the kitchen which was better stocked than any store Micah ever burglarized. He and the other inmates would make their meals to practice cooking. They also did the laundry for the pod to practice that. Sievert had Micah take a rolling laundry basket to the storeroom where he was given more clothes, toiletries, bedding and towels for his cell. "This is your cell," Sievert said as Micah wheeled the basket inside. It had a large window that allowed a lot of light. The bed was a nice size and had a real mattress. There were shelves and hooks for his belongings. "Can you make a bed?" He asked. "Not...really," Micah replied as he turned red. "You're honest. Excellent," Sievert said. "Put your clothes and toiletries away while I get you some help." Micah put his towels on the hooks and the folded clothes on the shelves. There was a mesh basket on the shelf for his socks. When putting away the toilet paper, he found that the toilet and basin were behind a privacy screen as was the shower. There were security cameras, but he wouldn't have to shower with anyone. That was such a relief that his stomach hurt. "Micah, come meet Adam," Sievert said. Adam was shorter than Micah, but he was well toned and attractive in a pale blond way with light blue eyes. "Hello," Micah said. "Sorry to interrupt your time outside." "No biggie," Adam said. "You could have really helped by not being so fucking hot. Green eyes and those lips?" "I can't make a bed," Micah offered. Sievert laughed. "Show him how it's done, Adam." Micah watched attentively as Adam rattled off instructions while he quickly and very neatly made the bed. He then took it apart. Micah took a deep breath, then followed the instructions perfectly. "Excellent," Sievert said. "Adam, you can go enjoy the rest of your exercise time. I'm going to have Micah work with the cook on prep." "Thanks, Adam," Micah said. "Sure thing." "Don't mind him," Sievert said. "He's antsy because he's been here a month without being acquired." "Is that bad?"


"Not really. The Homesteaders are often away from their homes," he replied. "It could be that he hasn't been seen by all that are seeking companions. It could take as long as another month to be chosen." "But you said you would be fast tracking me?" "You are hotter than all the ones here right now, Micah," Sievert said. "Are they're women who are available to be Companions?" "Yes, it does happen. But they are valued here for breeding, so they are extremely expensive," Sievert replied. +++ CONTINUED IN FULL VERSION D.L. Warner is a writer and filmmaker working in Los Angeles, California. She specializes in genre erotica with BDSM themes. To date, she was published four yaoi novels and released one feature film. Links to her titles and blogs can be found at http://sybpressyaoi.com.


Little Death James 'Grim' Desborough It's oppressively, wall-sweatingly, humid in here. The fan cuts through the air, almost reluctantly, strobing the lazy sunlight that comes in through the window. Delhi's like that, especially with the Monsoon season coming on. Wet and heavy. Like living inside some great, wheezing, lumbering beast. The hotel is wired, basement to roof, with every kind of electronic technology conceivable. When it comes to the mechanical the Indians are still a little too much of the 'make do and mend' mentality. The air conditioning and the dehumidifiers aren't working on this floor. That's how we got it mostly to ourselves and why it's so close and hot. Privacy is a valuable commodity to us, more so than comfort. I shiver at a sudden tickle. A trickle of sweat crawls down my back in fits and starts, negotiating its way down vertebrae and skin. It's too hot and wet in here for clothes; I'm used to British weather and the heat here is making me breathless. Even with the window thrown wide open to the smell of damp, rot and spice it doesn't cool the room at all. It makes it noisy, even this many floors above the street. The gabble of millions of voices in a half-dozen languages. None of which I can understand. Dec, on the other hand, understands everything. She's brilliant in ways I can't even begin to comprehend, but I trust her, love her, adore her, worship her. Even fear her. She tells me she feels the same way about me. Which makes me smile and shake my head. I doubt it. Not that it changes anything. I push the sweat from my brow back into my hair, slicking it back. I turn to watch her. She's hunched, deliciously naked, over the hotel suite's fabber, working her magic on its ones and zeros. She's my partner, my lover, my handler in every way that matters; mind, body and soul. I love her with every fibre of my being and she loves me just as completely. She couldn't do otherwise. We're two parts of the same machine and happy with our lot. It's an arranged marriage, of sorts. She doesn't sweat, my dark little angel, but in my mind's eye I imagine a single trailing drip and follow it down her slender back with electric eyes. The soft sway of perfect hair as it dusts her shoulders captivates me. The long, smooth curve of her back trailing down to the subtle flare of her hips. Her rounded, soft little bottom sways as she ferrets away at the machine, a flash of softer-still between her slender legs grips me with a sudden ache of desire. The way she looks now. Slender, youthful, almost cat-like in her self-assurance. The way she stretches, moves. Every motion, every touch is posed, perfect. She's always conscious of being watched, even when she pretends otherwise. That neat little body seems made to tempt me. Dark sketches drawn on her skin to drag my gaze to her every movement. She turns, just for a moment. Her hands are still working away on the machine, even as she offers me a wicked smile. Her pierced lip and nose glitter dragging my attention to her mouth. That smile seems to reach through her whole body and bring it to life under my gaze. Two pairs of metallic eyes meeting each other across the room. Some might find her eyes hollow, unsettling, there's a distance to them but it's something I find enchanting; they reflect mine.


"How much longer?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even. Anticipation has me achingly, painfully hard. I'm eager to get this done, eager to claim my reward: her. I yearn to fuck her. To have her bring me over that delicious edge, and once our obligation is complete she will be my plaything, rather than I being hers. She notices how I am champing at the bit, her eyes slither down and take in my throbbing erection. She pulls her luscious little mouth into a moue, pretending to be upset with me. "A little longer lover. Hold your fucking horses. We have to wait until he's there," her voice is soft and seductive, a purr–my little huntress–even with her harsh language. She stretches a moment and I cannot help but groan out loud to see that lithe little body arch, muscles moving under tattooed skin. The gentle bob of slight breasts that I ache to grasp in my hands makes me twitch harder and I feel a trickle, thicker than sweat, run down my flesh. The groan betrays me. She's teasing me, I know. She's building my need, my want, my yearning until it's unbearable, until I'll do anything for her. I turn away as she slithers one slender finger down between her legs, coaxing herself while her other hand lingers inside the fabber. At the breathy sound of her moan I tear my gaze away, an after-image of her slim digit penetrating soft flesh burned into my mind. Even with the fan going, I think I can hear a wet little sound as she penetrates herself and that makes my whole body quiver like an arrow. I force myself up onto my feet, shaking with tension and I step to the window. Bare feet pad across the thick carpet and there I stand, cock as stiff as a pole, naked for the whole city to see–should they be inclined to look up. The air's no cooler here but the sound of the crowd almost drowns out her teasing gasps of pleasure behind me as she fingers herself; the sounds slicker, hotter. My tongue dabs my lips as I struggle to ignore her, but I can't. I've tried. I wrestle with myself, trying to concentrate on the job in hand. I look to the clock, try not to think about her, or the knot of need that's now churning in my gut. Just a few minutes left and then our target will be here. I'll have relief. It'll be over and, after that, I can make her squirm and plead just as she is tormenting me this very moment. It's not an easy thing to kill people these days. That's what Dec and I do, we kill people. It's my calling–murder–so I've studied it just as an artist would study the history of their craft; the great painters and sculptors of the past. Killing is not as easy as people think. Militaries must try to create sociopaths; people with no empathy for their fellow man–none of the natural reticence that we feel towards causing other men harm. Conscripts are next to useless; most of them won't even fire at another human being. They'll aim into the air, miss, try to scare people away. Hardcore training dehumanises the men. They're not people any more. They're targets to be knocked down. Remote weapons help. Shooting someone is easier than stabbing them and launching a missile from half a world away is even easier. Even then it takes a special kind of person to be a killer and that kind of person, the kind that excels at killing, is rare. They're also dangerous, even when you don't need them to be and that's not useful for those who like to keep things clean. These days, even if you do shoot someone we can sustain a severed head long enough to find a surrogate. We can print organs in a medical fabber. You can get full body prosthesis and there isn't a venom or toxin that can't be arrested by nanites. The only way to kill an important target is with a catastrophic brain injury. For that you need a sniper.


A sniper who is willing to kill, able to kill, trained, capable, backed up, supported, motivated but not so far gone they're a danger when you don't need someone killed. You need a murderer who isn't psychotic. There's one thing a man will always kill for. No matter how advanced humans become, how far we crawl from our primordial origins. A man will always kill for a woman. I turn away from the window again and back to her. She's perched now, up on top of the fabber next to the gun-block, an elegant looking bullet sits next to it, upright and phallic. She gives me that pixieish smile again, flashing little white teeth and suckles her sticky fingers, one after the other. Her other hand caresses the gleaming tip of the ordinance and her eyes pointedly stare down between my legs, "I think it's ready." I bite down on the inside of my cheek, hard. My heart is pounding faster in my chest now. I breathe deep to try and calm myself down but fuck, I want her. Every fibre of me wants her. I feel like I'm going to burst out of my skin in my desperation to claim her, to put her under me and mount her, to fuck that sweet, tight pale cunt into drooling, gaping mess. She likes me rough, she likes me desperate, she likes to be wanted this much and she relishes these times when she's in control and I am not. She hops from the fabber with a little bounce, sweet handfuls of breast flesh shaking and making me practically salivate to feel her nipples between my teeth. She won't let me have her yet though, not until it's done. She slinks past me, shiny black nails tracing the thundering vein of my shaft as she slips to the window and kneels down, resting her chin on the windowsill and looking out over the city. "Not long now." Our target, not that I care about anything other than Dec at this point, is some bigshot in a Delhi-based technical firm. That's why we've got to take a direct shot. His defences are going to be some of the best that anyone, anywhere can buy, so measures like bullet-steering and micro-sat targeting can't be relied on. It has to be a direct shot from as far away as we dare. The upper floors of this hotel, next to the Sikh temple, give us a straight shot all the way down to the central park where he's making an address. All around us Delhi is springing up like bamboo, reaching for the stars, but here it's a straight plunge, right down the middle. Right to him. I grab the gun-box and the bullet off the fabber and snake my fist into its box, grasping the controls. Dec glances back at me over her shoulder and gives a sultry sigh as she watches me lock into the gun. Naked I pace up to the window and stand behind where she kneels. We both look out over the city together, both anticipating now, both waiting. She can't resist leaning back against my leg as I extend my arm and the gun-sleeve grips my arm, its barrel sliding out, spikes extending from the sides to lock it into the window frame. The gun is warm and snug around my fist and she is soft and smooth against my flesh. I feel the hairs of my shin, roughly pressed against her softness. I hook my optics up to the gun but I don't look through it. Not yet. Instead I look down. My darling Dec, she knows I love those cheesy old fantasy novels. She knows everything there is to know about me. She winds around my leg like some temple houri on an ancient paperback. I can feel her heat against me, the impossible smoothness of her skin. As I try to concentrate she lifts her head and laps at the root of my cock, nudging my tightening balls with a questing tongue-tip, making my whole body tense. "Find him baby."


I feel the words, rather than hear them. Her lips brush swollen flesh and her hips twitch, grinding heated wetness against my foot. She wants me as badly as I want her. She gets off on this control, as much as I resent it. I switch my optics to the gun and sight in down the street, arm extended, the gun an extension of me, of us. The gleaming new spires of Delhi rush past me as I zoom in and pick out the spot where he's going to speak. I don't want to kill. I don't know this man. He means nothing to me. Dec though, Dec means everything. I can only have her if I do what I'm told. She will only do what she's told if I do my part. I have to steel myself. The only way to have her, is to end him. Dec rewards me for my preparations. She grasps me in her slender little hands and starts to stroke me, to coax me. I stand like a statue, locked into the gun as she winds around me, double vision, the target and my lover blending into one. Each one a goal, one goal. "Do you see him yet?" She rolls my glans against her palm, peeling back the foreskin and flickering intensely with her tongue. Need flares through me, but I can't move, rooted to the spot by the gun software, helpless as she teases. I feel my calf muscle twitch. If I could move, it would be jerking like a dog's back leg. That's me, the faithful hound, pointing to the target with cock and gun alike. CONTINUED IN FULL VERSION James 'Grim' Desborough is an award winning tabletop RPG designer, a writer, a self publisher, a freelancer, a rakish fop, a gentleman bastard and is ten times more charming than that Arnold on Green Acres. http://postmortemstudios.wordpress.com & http://talesofgrim.wordpress.com


Night of the Mother Rick Moore Kengo was completing his nightly checks when he found them. He stood there, the flickering light of his kerosene lamp illuminating their bodies, not quite believing his eyes. Not so long ago the place had been a private boarding school for those who sought to have a sense of tradition instilled in their daughters. Kengo, a lifelong bachelor, at one time pitied the poor parents of these self-destructive girls, not for what they'd lost, but for what they'd never allowed themselves the chance to have. What they paid for was akin to closing the stable door after the horse had bolted. The girls did not want to be there; the place less a school than thinly disguised prison; its twelve foot perimeter wall beyond extensive woodland, along with heavy oak gates, making the facility nigh impossible to escape from once the girls were delivered there. The girls, most in their late teens, were more often than not the screw ups of wealthy businessmen. Though the faces and names were different, the stories were always the same: a lack of discipline combined with a sense of emptiness where there should have been love, their absentee parents realizing too late their daughter was failing at high school and had fallen in with the wrong crowd; resentment from the girls, sent away to be dealt with by someone else instead of any attempt by the parents to make a genuine connection. Kengo had often wondered, while performing the duties of his job as custodian and grounds keeper, how the school was supposed to instill traditional values, when the most important tradition, that of family, had been denied these children most of their lives. Now here he stood, looking at one such girl, a student no longer, knowing he should feel surprised. What he saw disgusted him, but he lacked any sense of outrage; what he'd encountered only making him even more melancholy than usual. Makiko was, by appearance, the quintessential Japanese teenager masquerading as an adolescent. Close to twenty, she still played a version of herself that was five years younger. Having encountered countless interpretations of this act over the years, Kengo had never been convinced. He'd never suspected though, that the girl might be mentally unbalanced, thinking her merely immature. But if what he saw was consensual, and it appeared so, then Makiko had to be crazy. She was up against a wall, her beige pleated skirt pushed up around her waist, legs in the air; no underwear. Kengo's eyes fixed on the thick dark hair between her young muscular thighs and he averted his gaze, ashamed by his involuntary arousal. Her white shirt was unbuttoned; breasts exposed, nipples dark and erect. Kengo found her face. Her cries of pleasure; short high pitched whimpers, made Kengo suddenly feel like slapping her. Even now, in the middle of this abominable coupling, she was acting. As the light fell on her face, Makiko met his gaze, covering her mouth with one hand as she giggled. Her smile fell away, her eyes hardening. "What do you want, trash man?" she asked, her voice low, hostile. "Can't you see I'm busy?" The changeling either didn't fear Kengo's presence or was so absorbed in its physical pleasure that it had yet to notice him. Its head, a hairless bloated lump oozing flesh worms from numerous pustules, visibly pulsed. What had once been a human skull


was now so misshapen, expanding and contracting, its shape in constant flux, that Kengo only knew the origins of its biology because the remnants of a face slid, pushed along by rippling folds of flesh, visually akin to the dough he'd seen in the school kitchen, folded continuously into itself by the mixer. The only part that did not move was the area that had once been the changeling's mouth. The lips were gone, but the orifice remained, now easily five times its original size. The entire opening was lined with small suction cups, not dissimilar to those on the tentacles of octopi or squid. The cups were affixed to the skin surrounding Makiko's external sex organs, the hood like aspect of the widely stretched mouth encapsulating everything from clitoris to anus. Through the semi-translucent flesh cloak, Kengo could see that the muscular hydrostat of its tongue had been reconstructed; the root elongated, the shape no longer flat but twisted, like thick, heavy rope. The organ, now repurposed for reproduction, was split in two at the tip, the endings hundreds of fibrous strands, the saliva alive with what looked like armies of tiny insects. The upper tip lashed against Makiko's clitoris; the lower questing deep into her vagina, a roiling unending supply of flesh slithering into her. Makiko's ecstatic squeals suddenly stopped. Her eyes widened, teeth clamping down; biting clean through her bottom lip. "...It sings inside me, trash man..." she whispered, spraying blood, a steady flow of it dripping from her chin. "...Sings..." Kengo touched the sheaf holding his hunting knife, popped the button, gripped the handle. Withdrawing the knife, he set the lamp on a fire extinguisher, took a breath, and ran forwards. +++ One hour earlier Makiko studied the occupants of the classroom, wondering if any would be susceptible to being teased, unable to think of any other entertainment. At Mr. Masumoto's suggestion they had made one of the upstairs classrooms their base, using it as living quarters while they were awake, with a second adjacent classroom to sleep in. Mr. Masumoto reasoned that while the dorm rooms on the ground floor were without windows, offering a modicum of safety, whoever was on watch could not alert the others quickly enough to take counter measures if any of the changelings made it over the wall into the grounds, or the school's weakest points of entry, the boarded up ground floor windows, were compromised. Makiko had never credited the headmaster with much intelligence, thinking him an old fool who used bullying and the all too real threat of punishment to keep the girls in line. Not only that but she knew for certain the old man was a pervert. On one occasion, when she along with two friends had been caught smoking, Headmaster Masumoto crossed the line between professional intervention and personal reward. She had been nineteen at the time, the other girls a few months younger, but that did not stop the old man from making them bend over his desk, hitch up their skirts, pull their panties down to expose their bare bottoms, then receive a caning. Makiko had looked back as the rattan stick fell across her friend Yumiko's reddened flesh and saw the demented glee in the headmaster's eyes, and the tell tale bulge in his pants. Fool and pervert, Headmaster Masumoto was still in charge, he made that clear when a teacher who questioned another of his decisions was ordered to leave. Nobody


thought he would follow through, watching from an upstairs window, as the teacher, Mr. Noguchi was made to walk to the gates, the headmaster and Mr. Izumi the assistant soccer coach close behind; Masumoto brandishing his cane, his young acolyte a sharpened stick. Makiko looked from face to face. What a pathetic collection of losers. Out of a hundred plus people six remained, the majority of pupils and staff fleeing the first day of the news broadcasts. Tokyo had been under attack. People were dubious at first, thinking it all a hoax. But when a famous news caster, reporting live amidst the turmoil, had her head ripped off by the lashing appendage of some unspeakably grotesque mutant, they knew it was real. The creature screamed as the last remaining vestiges of his human DNA were consumed in an explosion of rioting flesh and bone. The cameraman dropped the camera, the lens cracking as it hit the ground. The news reader's headless neck pumped a geyser of blood high in the air. The decapitated head rolled towards the camera; the newsreader, in her final seconds looking directly into the lens, whispering, "...Monsters... ...Monsters everywhere..." Masumoto did not try to stop them from leaving. Any true leader would have attempted to reason with the students and staff as they fled, screaming, some girls piling into vehicles, forcing their way inside when the teachers tried to keep them out, others running right out the gates. Anyone who really cared would have told them they had to regain control, would have used the megaphone or PA to explain a walled in school in the countryside was probably the safest place they could hope for now. But no. The headmaster merely sat back, calmly watching the chaos, a small smile turning the corners of his pencil thin lips. Makiko knew all this because she'd watched too. There was nobody in the world that mattered enough that she'd risk leaving this safe haven to find them. The walls were high and solid, the gates thick and sturdy. The pantries stocked. There was wild game in the woods. Even a stream for water if need be. The saddest part, Makiko felt, was that the students were willing to lie to themselves, pretending they cared so deeply about the people who pretended they cared so deeply about them. Deluding themselves to the degree they were willing to risk their lives, just to find the liars who'd spawned them, or some shy boy who'd professed love, too sensitive or immature to recognize that it was merely lust. Makiko liked it at first. Having the run of the place. Raiding the dorms for all the private stashes. Reading Manga, smoking cigarettes and drinking the pantry's supply of Calpis. Her friend Yumiko even left a nearly full bottle of whiskey under her pillow. Then the electricity went out and the good food went bad, leaving only the stuff that was canned and dried. She could no longer play video games, or read the Internet posts telling how bad it was out there. She couldn't even charge her mp3 player and listen to music. Amazingly, the girls had only taken their mp3s and their phones as survival tools, and out of all the dorms she only found two music players. One was out of charge, and the other had such a poor selection of music, real heavy depressing shit, no J-pop, that she smashed it to resist the temptation of listening to it. Now all she had were her companions. Just looking at them made her feel depressed. Makiko hated the feeling. She tried on a smile, liked the way wearing it brightened her mood. She skipped over to Kengo and Miss Nagamori, the mathematics teacher who barely spoke outside the classroom, and had become virtually mute since everything changed.


"Can I play too?" Makiko asked. Miss Nagamori dealt a hand, not once taking her eyes off the table. Kengo raised his cards, glancing up at Makiko. "You already have a game in progress. Can you play two at the same time?" Miss Nagamori looked up at her also, brave enough now Kengo had gone on the offensive. Makiko's gaze moved between them, seeing no friendliness in their eyes. Oh wow. These people really hated her. That was okay. As far back as she remembered most grown ups always had. Except for Mom and Dad, of course. They just hadn't felt anything towards her. To them she was simply there. There had been her first nanny, the sweet and loving Miss Mori, but then Dad went and fucked that up by screwing her and getting caught. Makiko stuck her tongue out at them both and skipped away. Satsuki had shocked Makiko by moving a bench into the classroom out of the hallway. It had been the only time she'd ever seen her fellow student exert herself, and the overweight girl had barely moved ever since. She'd taken to constantly wearing sunglasses, making it impossible to tell if she was awake or asleep, except for when she snored. "Satsuki?" Makiko asked, leaning in close. "What do you want?" Satsuki grumbled. "Can't you see I'm trying to sleep?" Makiko squatted beside the other girl. "Satsuki, can I ask you a question?" The other girl sighed, turning her head, chin disappearing into the folds of her neck. "Don't ask if you can ask. Just ask." Makiko smiled reflexively. In normal times, the other girl had been a notorious bully, using her size to intimidate. "Satsuki, why didn't you run that day like everyone else?" "Because I'm not a fool," Satsuki said, the act of speaking seeming to take a huge amount of effort. "Did you see those idiots? Running and screaming. Too many damn Kaiju movies when they were kids. All that wasted energy... And for what? They're going to get us all in the end, anyway." "You don't believe we'll be rescued?" "Leave me be, Makiko," Satsuki said, yawning as she turned her head away. "All this talking is making me tired." The only other person in the room was headmaster, Mr. Masumoto. He stood by the windows, which faced northward, sharpening one end of a stick with Kengo's knife. Makiko picked up one of two table tennis bats that had been left on a desk, took one of the lightweight white balls, and bounced it on the flat face of the bat as she made her way across to Masumoto. "Want to play headmaster?" Makiko asked, continuing to bounce the ball off the bat. "I told you before," he said, placing the knife on the window sill. "The recreation area is out of bounds." "You can't stop me going where I want." Masumoto snatched the ball out of the air, closing his hand around it, meeting her eyes. "Disobedience will not be tolerated. Be aware Makiko, you're coming dangerously close to being expelled." "You wouldn't put me out there," Makiko said, fairly certain he'd do just that. "Not a poor helpless girl."


Masumoto's eyes didn't hold any emotion, not like the other two adults. "I would advise you to stop testing limits." he said. He was getting to her but Makiko refused to let it show. She smiled, putting on the playfully mischievous imp practiced so often in the mirror. Makiko leaned closer, whispered. "I think I know a game you might like," She used the table tennis paddle to lightly spank herself, sticking out her backside. "I call it 'The naughty schoolgirl must be punished'. What do you say? It'll be our little secret." Masumoto's eyebrows perked, forehead raised in folds, a brief spark of interest permeating the dull flatness of his eyes. He smiled, the dead eyed shark returning. "When the monsters come, and they will come, Makiko; I won't do anything to save you. Do you know why? It's because you're no use for anything. The other two girls... They had potential. But not you." Masumoto referred to the two girls that were wrapped in plastic in the basement. "Potential?" Makiko said, making no effort to disguise her disgust. "Opening their wrists in a suicide pact to escape? Weak, that's all they were." "Precisely," Masumoto said, then picked up the knife and went back to sharpening the stick. "You know where you are with girls like that. Know what's real and what's not. A real pity, what they did. A real waste." Makiko caught the headmaster's meaning and winced with distaste. "You want to make yourself useful," Masumoto said, nodding to the pot of nabe simmering on top of a floor set shichirin portable stove. "Go take Mr. Izumi his ration." Makiko clapped her hands, making her pigtails swing, her smile genuine. "Mr. Izumi. Yay! Talking to him is always so much fun. Thank you, headmaster. Yay!" Looking at her Masumoto sighed, shook his head, then went back to his work. +++ CONTINUED IN FULL VERSION Originally from England, Rick lives in Arizona, working for the state in the mental health field. An associate editor with Dark Moon Digest, his fiction has appeared in over thirty anthologies and zines, including Cross Genre Cthulhu, Bound for Evil, the Stoker nominated Horror Library 4 and Dark Moon Digest issue 3. A full list of publishing credits can be found in 'blog' at http://www.myspace.com/zombieinfection


Espionage Dolls Glynn Barrass One precise truth Flora learned during her encounter with the undead cosmonauts: zombie spunk was very, very cold. It was a tough life, being an Intergalactic Spy and Bunny Girl. On her knees beside her sister, she tugged a zombie's cock from her mouth. "Dora hey?" she whispered, "You found it yet?" "Um, um, ooh," Dora, replied, tugging a cock from her mouth, "Damn there're two Russian pricks up my ass here Sis!" Mounted from behind, the twins straddled another two zombies. Being double corn-holed by the living dead, not the most glamorous way to make a living. "Uh, ugh," Dora continued, "no I haven't found it yet, urm." A zombie, grabbing her head, gagged her with its moldy gray member. Returning to her oral partner, Flora gripped the shaft only to suffer a spurt of ice-cold semen straight to the eye. "Shit I was hoping to swallow that," she moaned, jerking the zombie off. Ejaculating wildly, it grunted its approval. An unfortunate moment for Flora, a zombie doing her ass also popped its cork, shooting a powerful stream of jisum straight to her bowels. Twenty-three zombies‌ each going twice or three times even. By the end, the twins were bruised all over, their knees scraped and their Bunny Girl outfits quite ruined. Asses too sore for words, their bellies brimmed with icy cold, wobbly cum. It could have been worse. Faces dripping, their tights utterly sodden, still their mission had been a success. Running hand in hand from the now enraged zombies, Flora held the exit keycard (stolen from Colonel Vladimir Benderov's tattered brown jumpsuit). Her sister however, held said Colonel's cock. "It snapped off in my hand," Dora giggled, hence the enragement, hence their flight across Space Station Sokubych's dusty, anti-grav floor plates. "No good though," Flora moaned, the exit still meters away, "those zombonauts reach us and we'll be lunch after the dessert!" Dora glanced back. Her bunny ears drooped upon seeing all those gnashing undead. Benderov the leader–he looked unhappy, even for a zombie. "Here." Sticking the keycard in her mouth, Flora released her sister's hand. Reaching into a black silk elbow glove, she next removed a tiny bumblebee striped capsule. A miniature grenade, it came courtesy of their sponsors. "Here tik thish," she garbled between the keycard. Accustomed to her sister speaking through a mouthful, Dora accepted the grenade. Slipping it into the foreskin, she turned on her heels, tossing the phallus gracefully towards the closing rabble. Benderov caught it. The cock erupted just as they reached the hangar bay doors. CONTINUED IN FULL VERSION


Glynn Barrass lives in the North East of England and has been writing since late 2006. His work has appeared in over 50 magazines and anthologies including Kizuna Fiction For Japan, Lovecraft's Disciples, Night Land, and TÊnèbres. His fiction has also been translated into French and Japanese. This year sees the release of his first collection, Two Against Darkness, and his first edited book from Chaosium. Details and news of his latest fiction appearances can be found on his website Stranger Aeons: The Domain of Writer Glynn Barrass at http://www.freewebs.com/batglynn


The Wasters John Trevillian Name's Jack. Not many people know that, but suits me real fine. To most I'm just a johnny no-name who fucks them off. Like it that way. Folks with a long memory might remember when I wasn't a loner. Might remember when we was eleven. How we ruled the dark. How we were fucking A. And while they're doing all this shitfire reminiscing, might also remember how they used to call me The Nowhereman. Still maybe they won't… Now here once more I stand alone. I stand atop the ragged ruins of the Phoenix Tower and look up at the brilliant sky. Night falls. Wind's up. First time for ages it's clear. I see stars. Up here I feel free. Here I feel I can do 'most anything. All alone. Oh, except for my D&K. My D&K and the voice. Heaven's coming. See it, Jack? See it? Get outta my brain, you total shit. There it is. Passing over like the morning star. Fuck you. The voice makes me angry. Been drinking so I get angry fast. I've had a bad day. A real bad day. So I've come up here to get away from it all. Don't want no half-assed sucker messing with my mind. I'm here 'cause I want to be alone. Wanna throw some shit at the stars. Wanna shoot my mouth off to the moon. But seeing Heaven, I forget all that. I forget it and decide to get prayin'. Most days prayers is all I got. Been three years far as I can reckon. Three, maybe four. Long time since I decided to stay here. Stay and rot in this metropolitan corpse. Then I woke to a new life. A brilliant myriad of possibilities. Now only dreams I have come straight outta a battered book of faerie tales. An island so far removed from this fucked-up ass-wipe of a place that it hurts just thinking about it. An island I read about every cunting day of my un-life, but've seen one time only. So I shout off into the nothing. Venting frustration. Throwing open the floodgates. Pain and words're same as always. "Hey father, you up in Heaven? Hallo, hear your name…" I know the spiel better than I know myself. I spit it out. Try not to think how pointless it is. Try to believe in it real hard. "You led me to damnation. You delivered me to the evil ones…." I feel the words. Force them up from my gut. Vomit them out. "Now I want your kingdom, your power and your glory. Forever and ever: Amen." Though my cry's strong, it's caught on the wind and is lost. Lost like a scream to the dead. We are all lost. You. Me. Them. Them? Yes… All of them. No way. You got it wrong. We all stood together. We all bled. We all swore. Don't matter where they are or what they're doing, they're still in. Till the end of time. And though things have been mighty shaky these last few years, eternity's still hangin' on in there.


Once, now and‌ Forever A-Men? S'right. Till the end of time. +++ The final surfer attack came on the night I met Shitjack. But it was going long before that. Kinda like a war. Sort of but not quite. To us it was a war. To them it was just kicks. They'd hang mid-space, spy for a while then come down and slam our butts. And we'd scratch our rocks and hope it'd be someone else's turn next time. Never was. Always our turn. Or seemed that way. Had butts so sore it was hard to show face, y'know. Hard to be someone with a super-red ass chute. Still what could I do? Only one of me. Not that that ever mattered until now. Alone was enough. Alone rules. Until the Wasters came. Now they rule. There's fucking loads of them. Still everyone was screwed. Just got used to being pissed on. Whole place shut down. No one cruised anymore. No one dragged bikes. Shit, no one moved. The place was a prison. A great big concrete prison. All that was left was to tough and tough back. If I remember rightly I was toughing Pigmeat the day I met Shitjack. Yeah, it was Pigmeat. Can still remember the smell. Unless they yell in the dark all you got is the smell. And the smell sure wasn't Lucille. He'd pissed off fast as fuck when the last train came by. Shit only knows where he got the fare. Perhaps others paid him. Sure as hell got nothing from me. 'Cept that mink one time. Yeah it was Pigmeat. Little fuck. The Wasters had wasted my bike. Picked it up after the Reapers snatched back the lambo. Surfjocks'd caught me on Jefferson Davis Parkway. I was out early finning some turkies. Tore it in half with a kalashnikov. Better it than me. Best geo I ever stole. Fixed the front axle. Resealed the tank. Even painted the arches. Fuck the Wasters. Fuck 'em all. They were gone now so I fucked Pigmeat instead. Angry jerks. Total screw by the totally screwed. No control. Who cares if he dies. Sweating. Piston. Grunting. Chains. Fast spasmodic furiousity. Cock rules in the dark. And Pigmeat's the best boy-pussy around. At least since Lucille left. Above the noise I hear this sound. Sort of like blades. Buzzing. I stop pumping and hear the brat slump in the chains. I cross to the window. Outside's darker than inside. Not even a headlight. Yet still this noise like a crazy metal heartbeat. Pigmeat asks what's up. I tell him to fucking shut it. Then he hears it too. "Whassat?" I don't tell him twice. My knuckles feel for his face. There's a crack. Then he's quiet. The buzzing's louder. Too loud for a chopper. Wrong sound for a grav. Last time I saw a grav was the wrong side of eighty-three. No, not a grav. Something new. Something different. I curse Lucille. I should've been on that train. Never trust a man in red lipstick. They're always trouble. I stuff myself into my pants and belt 'em tight. Grab my jacket too. It's hot but who looks mean in just Levi's? And the skin hides things. Like a piece. Who knows what's out there tonight. I try to stop my mind racing, but it races anyway. Not a nightflier.


Never a chinook. What then? I thought I'd heard everything. Stroked Pigmeat's crop as I left. Told him I'd be back. What a waste of breath. Locked the door though. Didn't want my date to be disturbed while I was out. Never know what state I'd find him in. Glad I fitted a lock. Glad I know Pigmeat. Glad to be so fucking lucky. Met Jesus on the stairs. Said hi but didn't hang around. Good policy. Who wants to hang with kooks like Jesus? Down in the lot the air is full of dust. Calm night turned rowdy. The wind is like air running scared. Saw faces up in the sky. No one but me crazy enough to come down. Don't know why I've come down. Just got a feeling. A feeling that I'm wanted. Like a siren calling my name. Pull out my D&K. Feels good in my hand. Feels like a dick when it's hard. My metal cock. Ready for fucking. I keep low to the wall and watch the sky. Buildings are too near to see much any which way. So I wait. Wait and watch. Sound gets louder. My piece feels too small. Wish I still had my dancer. So much scrap after the last belt's gone. Still a D&K sure beats a blade. Dark night lit by searchlight. Single beam in the middle of the lot. I clear the wall and crouch the other side. Watch as the night opens. It's one big mother. Could be orbital. Probably a personal transport. Looks real expensive, anyway. What's a rich kid doing here? Then I think of the Wasters and the whole shitty deal we've been getting. Maybe it's showtime. Maybe those O-Zoners finally decided to stop playing and start this war for real. Maybe they got fed up with crashing our junks and fragging our fuel and thought hey let's kick some real ass. Maybe mr numero uno Waster come to see the field before playing ball. Touchdown time. Fucking makes me sick just thinking about it. Across the street is a row of shops squatting in shadows. The nearest is one big sign with a door in it. I'm still waiting and watching when I see Gut Radical under the sign. It says 'Coke W$5.00'. I'm shit if it's the real thing. Can't get piss for five world dollars. Still I'm sure it's him. I can see his goatface from here. Well, well, well. So Radical's into this birdy too. He's got the scent. If it wasn't for all this noise I'd bet I'd hear him mewling. Fat Gut's always in on a deal. He'd be a pro if he'd lay off the A's. Shoots every vein in his ass. Got cheeks like the craters of the moon. Don't ask me how I know. He hasn't seen me. He's not looking my way at all. He's looking straight up. I look up too. Above the blinding pillar of light is the big grey belly of the bird. It slides open like a wound spilling red. Warning lights. Someone's coming down. Seeing this gets Gut edgy. You can tell when the Gut's edgy. He smooths back his hair. He's doing it now. Wiping the grease to the nape. When it's flat he starts over. What's this then? Gut doing a deal? A deal with the Wasters? Has to be. My mind shouts shoot him now, but I stop. Finger's half pulled the trigger. I let it go. Breathe deep. Wait and watch. A rope ladder uncoils from the belly of the bird. A figure claws its way down. Looks like it's wearing enough trikevlar to stop a nuke. The figure moves too gracefully to be a dog. Still, takes me ages to suss it's a bitch. The leather sticks to my back. I'm sweating in the hot night. More than the false wind can dry. My gun feels heavy in my fist.


A woman? I blink back the wetness in my eyes. I'm getting hard just realising it. A woman. I don't care what this set-up's about. Fuck the Gut. All I want is that cunt. In my mind's eye I can see it. Waiting. Wanting. Wettening. Watching the battle-clad siren descend, I know now why I'm here. Why I'm alive. Why I've fought and won and fought again. Why I've never quit. Never stopped fighting. For the promise of this cunt. One thing's for sure, she's no Waster. Then I notice I'm wanking. I stop, cursing. Realising the danger. Can still see that cunt though. So close now I can almost smell it. Guess I'm still horny from leaving Pigmeat. Apart from her moves, the woman's invisible. Hidden in her armour. She reaches the bottom of the ladder. She's only ten metres away and I feel like screaming. Probably wouldn't hear me anyhow. Still I keep my jaw locked. She looks unarmed. Not carrying anything obvious. Doesn't mean fuck though. Maybe she's got friends upstairs. Maybe something in her suit. Or maybe she's hoping everyone round here'll be too busy hanging out their tongues to pull anything. I start to pull my cock again. I'm drooling and I don't even care to wipe the spit. Hell, I don't even care. I'm so busy eyeballing the bitch that I don't notice Gut. Not till he's right up to her. He's walking like he's shit his pants. Sidling. His face is blank like a mask. White in the searchlight. Every vein poking out. With his whole face in relief, he looks like a ghost. The silver of his pierced lip twinkles. Radical's carrying a bag. Some cloth affair. Holding it to his chest. Clutching it like a little baby. Got to be important if he's got it that close. Nothing gets that close to Gut. His eyes are searching the dark lot. Wonder what horrors he's seeing? Guess he feels as exposed as he looks. Must be hoping for some sort of miracle when this bitch is gone. Whatever the deal, he's gonna have a hard job hanging onto his payment. And his life. Some round here would kill for a taste of ol' Radical's living, y'know. Still not many could tough up old fat Gut. What good's a fist against a sawn-off? Still he must know that every jerk worth his salt's gonna be out to get him after this scene. Must have thought of that. Must have. Gut hands over the bag as if he's giving away his last snort of dust. The bitch is nodding slowly deep inside her suit. I can see her face-plate twitch rythmically. The Gut's hands are empty now. Don't know what to do with them. Stuffs them under his arms and shuffles. The stranger's expression is lost, but her posture hints at betrayal. Then she's reaching into her hip-pocket. I'm as surprised as anyone when she digs out a set of tags. There are two. Triangular. Plasti-coated. Red. They sit in the woman's gloved hand, their black cord draped enticingly through her fingers. No, not tags. They're tickets. Train tickets. The plastic gleams in the searchlight like twenty-four carat gold. The sight of the tickets wipes me over the edge. I cum. A whimper issues from my mouth. Torn away on the roter's wind. As the sound goes the night lets out a whimper of its own. I just catch it. And this time I know what it is.


The whine of grav-motors. Hova-boards. Half a dozen. Maybe more. So what is your assessment, Nowhere? Wasters. In-coming. Ten o'clock. I forget the slime in my jeans and arc my head toward the sound. All I see is night. Fuck these buildings. Distort everything. I turn to four o'clock and see a wall of headlights. Just in time. The woman hasn't heard a thing. She only knows something's up when she sees the Gut's face. Spinning, she's down in one. On my periphery I see her tacticals rezz on. Some badass bitch. Out of the darkness between the blocks eight pairs of electric neon sear the sidewalks. Astride their leather skidpads stand a pack of yowling jockies. Long hair whipping like bleached ribbons. All are dressed in the same surfer strip. Cut-offs. Palm shirts. Loafers. The head honcho is J.J. Jerome-James. I know him well. He holds his kalashnikov like a zulu spear. Fucking Wasters. Go back to daddy. J.J. looks surprised as he arcs down toward the transport. This stinks of bad timing. Won't have to wait long to see who for. The Gut's next to the woman now, clawing her. Wants the tickets. She shrugs him off and tosses them behind her. He goes scrabbling. She wastes a few seconds tying the bag to the ladder. From her shoulder plates twin pistols click out little cobras. The sky is full of falling stars. Revving their boards the beach boys swoop in and begin to torch the lot. Flames roast wrecks. Turns the air into an oven. The woman focuses on the swarm and produces a steel bar from her thigh. Looks like a cattle prod. As the jockey boys buzz past her she spears one. His chest explodes like an overripe peach. On the first pass the Wasters let their gadgets scan the area. I've seen this sorta move before. We're all data now. Zero coordinates in some cannon's silicon mind. Next pass we're meat. Wonder if I'm on the chart. Not waiting to find out. My mind can't forget those tickets lying in the dirt, but I'm not suicidal. Got other thoughts. Like staying alive long enough to use 'em. Keeping low to the wall, I cock my D&K and wait for the next fly-by. Can't see the lot now. Just feel the heat. There's a pause as they circle. The dopplering of their warcries. Budda-budda-budda. The whine of the boards. And then they burst into view above me. My piece cums in my fist. Two shells. Three. One for luck. Hit two of the air-bikers in the back and a third bike on the left boogie-fin. The first jockey crashes headlong into Broadview Apartments. The bike erupts as its grav-unit implodes. Crazy fucks. Why'd rich kids like you wanna go down like this? I look over the wall letting my eyes drink in the carnage. Gut's history. The bitch's cut up bad. Transport's not hanging around for her. Already the bag is buzzing out of reach above her head. With friends like yours, lady, who needs fuck-buddies? She's trying to make it to cover before the bikers get back. Pretty hard on a blasted thighbone. Still she's moving towards the Gut. Why? Obviously not to pay her last respects. Then it clicks. With the transport gone, she's stuck here.


She's going for the tickets. I don't think. For a moment I forget that she's a bitch. I forget what lurks behind that frosted mask. I even forget the smell of her cunt. Perhaps it's 'cause I've cum. Who knows? I put it all out of my mind and level my D&K towards her. It shouts twice and jerks in my hand. The two shells make the inside of her helmet look like a blender. My heart screams as she falls. She's a meter away from the plastic when she hits the tarmac. Too bad, baby. Could have been good, you and me. I fall onto my ass and start to reload. Doesn't take that long. Only got five shells left. Up on the luminous green screens of the hova-boards, I almost feel myself appear on their battlescans. Four left. I got one, bitch got three. Four left, but four's more than enough. With dataterms, one's enough to pin you out. Wall or no wall, I don't stand too much of a chance. First chance of a woman in three years and you wasted her. Shut it. What were you thinking about? I said shut it. Guess you've got to like all that pretty-boy ass‌ My head is full of wild, crazy laughing. "For chrissake! Fucking SHUT IT!" I'm trembling like a leaf. The steel butt of my D&K is resting on my temple. I tear it down. Disgusted. I force a swallow. Then I hear the Wasters attacking the transport and run for the tickets. In this town there are no second chances. I get close to five meters before J.J. eyeballs me. He screams to his cronies but they're gunning the bird. As he snarls one jockey zips too close to the transport's icy turbines. The poor fuck is sliced. J.J. looks away. Sees me again. Decides to deal with this himself. Dodging the rain of blood and twisted air-bike, the head Waster stabs at his handlebars and soars downwards. Judging his speed I know I'm gonna get to the tickets first. After that I'm fucked. Nowhere to hide out here in the lot. Guess it's kill J.J. time. With pleasure. In my next few stumbling strides I reach the tags. They're floating lazily in Gut's blood. I stand astride them and face the in-coming jock. He's levelled off for a final approach. Kalashnikov aimed. Braced in his manicured little fingers. His tanned face shoved against the sight. Blonde hair tied out of his baby-blue eyes. In the light from the burning cars he looks like the Devil. I raise my D&K just as I hear his weapon shoot. Damn near blows my head off. I feel pain in my neck and shoulder. Let my adrenaline deal with it. My gun wavers. My sight blurs. I let off a shell that wings the bike on the chrome running board. Doesn't do a thing. Perhaps cost him twenty on a little sealant. Sure as hell don't stop him coming. He allows himself another shot before his computer chalks the kill, but the speed of his approach throws him wide. I brace my pistol on my numbing forearm. When I fire again J.J. loses his right hand. The rifle tumbles. The hova-board spins. There's a sound like an engine over-revving. Then the air-bike stalls. J.J. meets the cement at terminal velocity. Skims the sidewalk like a stone. When he meets the shops


on Thirteenth he turns the whole block white. That's for my geo, you rich fuck. I look smug. I can feel the thin grin on my face. I try not to glance at the mess that was once my left shoulder. All I'm worried about now are those damn train tickets. I nearly shit my pants when I look down and they're gone. I spin on my heels and almost hear my neck wound tear. I howl and try to focus. Corpses aside I'm alone in the lot. No one's here. No one's been here. So where'd the hell they'd go? I'm just about to notch it to hallucination when I see the kid. He's a good ten metres out on Belmont but I can still see those tags flashing in the orange light. Don't recognise the trash. Don't mean nothing here though. I aim my .45 automatic and shoot. Curse as the shell blasts sidewalk. Kid dances amidst the splinters. Then he ducks sideways and is gone. Running with a broken shoulder nearly wipes me out. But I do it. Reach the alley where the thief was. See a wall. Dead end. Gotcha you little fuck. Through the blur I see shadows, but no kid. I bluff and call him out. He comes too. Just like a lamb. I can't believe it. Then just as I'm gonna waste the prick I see he's not got the tickets. I ask him where they are. Real pleasant like. Shit says he's hidden 'em. Back in the lot the fighting's ending. The transports outta range and soon the Wasters'll be getting bored. Also come looking for the man who shot their Pa. I grab the trash by the throat. Try to wring it outta him. Jocks make short work of that. Already one of them's gunning up Belmont. Got vengeance written all over him. Nothing crazier than a pissed-off rich kid. His front cannon makes mosaic of the shop fronts. I haul the kid into the alley and get low. As he buzzes past I empty my piece into him. The first shell ruptures his right thigh. The second makes short work of the back of his head. The scooter skids to a halt outside Black Julio's. I'm already on my way. Dragging the kid, I ignore the shit's squeals. Straddle the jockey's hova-board. Hitting the pedals I feel the vehicle leap skywards. My insurance outta this hellhole holds on tight. Already the street's way outta reach. Hope he's not feeling suicidal. I sure ain't. Once round the block, then beat the fuck and get the tickets. Piece of cake. 'Cept for the Wasters. The rest of the beach bums've noticed my tricks. Whoop-de-doo. Some nights it just ain't worth getting up. With a roar of twin-valves, the surfers pursuit begins. They come hollering. Like the three little drugged-up frat party dudes they are. After a moment gunfire joins the chanting. They're out of range. Still that'll change soon enough. Already thinking where to ditch the bike. I'm travelling south. Near enough. Guess that takes me downtown. Great. No one goes downtown. Least no one who wants to come back. I hang a right onto Tenth. Now I'm going east. That takes me to the bridge. And the bay. "Hey shitface," I shout back, "Guess we're going to Sister's." Dodging under a set of busted traffic beacons, I rev the scooter up to the rooftops.


Keep weaving, lad. Duck 'n' dive. Duck 'n' dive. Too right. Something makes me glance to the side. One of the beach boys is coming up Fischer. Trying to cut me off at the intersection. I kill the grav on instinct alone. The board plummets. Sparks stream as it skims tarmac. The kid yowls. I laugh while above our heads windows are blown to pieces. Through the glass rain I hit the throttle. Slam it to full. I feel the shit's fingernails in my side. Draw blood, baby. Now I know he's holding on, I really move this mother. Rolling it, I spin out and under the nearest attackers. Watch them shriek. Then head down Fischer. Fischer is a slum. Gloom and doom. All burnt-out apartments. Truck cafes. Warehouses. "I wanna get off!" I grin like Death having a good day. What'd you think I was trying to do, shitface? All I wanted was a quiet night in. Just me and my date, y'know. Not really the sorta evening for a ride. The air's too thick. Thick with thieves. The kid yells that they're coming. Tell me something else I don't know. I've got to turn the tables. Give myself time to breathe. Think. Think! Off-balancing the board, I send trash cans flying. Coming in low, I enter the open doorway of an empty warehouse. As soon as I'm in, I plough the bike and shout at the runt. "Hit the door!" He obeys like it's in his coding. Jumping off the back, he's at the controls in a flash. Reaching up he punches the pad with both fists. I sweat blood. Just like the eighty-three riots all over again. The entryway stays open. The shield door don't even shiver. Nothing. My mind grills the possibilities. No power? Pass-coded? Just plain broke? "Again," I scream, "Hit it again!" Outside the three Wasters zip by the gaping throat of the warehouse. Still scared I've got more shells. Won't be fooled for long. The mousey-haired scruff whacks the controls a second time. Double nothing. Fuck, what's wrong with it? Locked. Must be. I look across past the manic-faced kid. In the box is a safety key secured by a chain. It's turned horizontal. Off-lock's vertical. With a sound like a hundred hornet's nests, the O-Zoners descend for the kill. Game's wounded. Unarmed. Trapped. Too bad, Nowhere. They hover into position like a trio of fallen angels. All bronzed skin and lip gloss. Eyes smiling. If they waste me now they'll probably be back in time for their workouts. Slowly, agonisingly, they level their assorted firearms at my head. TouchĂŠ! "It's safety locked, kid." My voice is cold, calm. Dead low. "Mean anything to


you?" I can tell by the way the trash blinks that it don't. Looking back at the blondies, I wince. Not like this. Oh fuck. With a deafening resounding noise I hear their guns shout. All perfectly together. In absolute, impossible unison. Like a hellish choir. My eyes burn. My shoulder grinds. I flinch. You owe me one. Then nothing. Then the firing starts again. Yet when it does it's somehow far away. Distant. I strain to peer through the wet. I can hardly believe it when I see just the metal greyness of the entry door. The Wasters are blasting at the outside. Might as well be shooting at the moon. The kid is pulling on my left hand. My neck screams. I bat him away, so he heads off alone. I see sense and follow. Who are you? Who wants to know? Out back broken trucks lie everywhere. Like some kinda weird techno elephant's graveyard. The gates lead onto the railway track. Beyond is darkness. Beyond that the lights of the bridge. Seeing the bridge I remember fishing and‌ Daddy, I think I've got a bite! And shut it off. If I can see the bridge then Sister's can't be far. If she's still got that stupid cross all lit up then it shouldn't be too hard to spot. Staggering in the hot night, I let the kid be my crutch. Slip through the torn gates. Head out. On the tracks I hear the bikes again. Don't give a shit. I'm beyond caring now. Let 'em come. I surrender. I surrender. Luckily shitface don't feel the same. Scooter lights sear the dark, but not on us. The surfers're combing the blocks. Their mistake. Guess they don't know this place too well after all. The way I feel it don't really matter. Even a blind man could track me down. Perhaps I should've stayed with the hova. Nah, sitting duck. I yowl at the pain. The kid hushes me. I keep moving. I can't even remember where. Then I see the electric blue neon of the crucified son of God. Then I remember. Hey Sis! Sister! It's Nowhere, babe. Y'know. Want to save my soul one more time, baby? The kid sees me seeing the cross. "That where your sister lives?" he asks. I nod. Who cares if it hurts. Talk to forget it. "Yeah. That's Sis's place. You'll like it. Real neat. Me and Sis go way back. Hey, I knew her when she didn't wear no knickers‌" The urchin frowns. "We'd better hurry. Those lights are getting close." Yeah I know, you shit. I don't have to look. I can hear 'em. Sounds like they've found the truckyard. Won't take long before they find us too. Not now. Sister, you'd better be in, baby.


+++ CONTINUED IN FULL VERSION John Trevillian is an award-winning British author of dark and dirty neopunk science fiction. Fascinated by the crossover points of technology, religion and myth, Trevillian's work is informed as much by the roles of magazine editor, technology writer and IT journalist as his training in the Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids and Native American Shamanism (Lakota Sioux tradition). He is also founder of the Talliston interior design and art project, an attempt to realise a life full of enchantment, magic and those mysterious forces of story which move the human soul. http://www.trevillian.com & http://www.talliston.com


The G-Spot (GuestFiction Spot) This issue's guest author is Hot Chicks RPG creator Scott Corum. Day of the Wang Scott Corum Shelly had been on stranger missions for The Agency, but not many. She and her partner Rachel had found two corpses already; women who had been forcefully penetrated in unnatural and bizarre manners resulting in their deaths. Rachel was prepared to do preliminary medical examinations on the bodies, but they'd been completely unnecessary. Whoever had tried to force sex on these women hadn't known what they were doing; their genitals were relatively unharmed, but the three-inch-wide holes in their torsos indicated that their attacker hadn't cared where he'd put his tool. "That's two," said Shelly into her headset. "This one took it in the lower torso, at least; so he's getting closer. What made you think this was a good idea, again?" Back at their base, two older men and a woman sat around a conference table, watching the feed from Shelly and Rachel's headset cameras. "Prosthetic replacement of the genitals has been a tricky proposition from the beginning," said the older of the two men. "This seemed like a good direction for the advancement of the techniques. We were wrong. Now find the subject." "We're working on that," said Rachel. "Simmons, what else can you tell us about our target?" The younger man, Rachel and Shelly's direct supervisor at The Agency, flipped through screen after screen of records and notes. "Volunteer subject Daniel David Thomas; he's in his twenties, injured by an IED in the Middle East conflict. Lost just about everything from the waist down and signed up with one of our subsidiary companies for the replacement experiment." "What kind of legs did they give him? His tracks look human, but his stride is stupid long," said Shelly. Simmons flipped through a series of technical drawings. "State of the art dual-replacement suite," he replied. "Makes sense‌ that would also have replaced the missing pelvis and lower spinal column. Our folks didn't go half way, either; looks like he can pull somewhere around eighty miles an hour at a dead run, and he can probably jump three stories straight up, give or take a few feet." "That explains it," said Rachel. "He's got to be running at close to full speed. Where the hell is he going?" The tall, willowy blonde tightened the grip on her semi-automatic pistol and started checking rooftops. They'd been in alleys for the better part of the evening, and they were starting to lose track of where in the city they were at. Shelly blew a lock of her red hair out of her eyes. The shorter, bustier woman flicked her eyes over the nearby area, absorbing details. "Industrial district. I think he's heading for some of the old factories." There was a long, disturbed pause from the conference room. "That would be bad," said the woman. "Define 'bad,'" said Rachel, as she dropped a transponder on the body they'd found. A recovery and clean-up team would follow along and make sure the corpse was properly dealt with.


"The prosthetic‌ we cut corners on the programming," the woman admitted. "Damn it, Evelyn," said the older man, "that's need-to-know information. You're not cleared to discuss the operating system!" Simmons smoothly stood and drew his pistol in one motion. The older man winced as the cold barrel of the large revolver settled against his temple. "All right, Johnson, we've played nice up to this point," Simmons said, his voice a hiss. "My agents are out there in the field, hunting down a guy that can fuck holes in engine blocks. There is no information that we do not 'need to know.' So, start telling us why we don't want this thing to get to a factory, and do it fast." "Do we move?" asked Shelly. "Or do we wait for intel?" "Move," said Simmons. "Doctor Gaites here is looking kind of nervous, so you'd better stop this guy fast." The two agents, both professionals to the core, took off running, as Simmons pulled back the hammer on his revolver. It made a satisfying "click," which was transmitted to Doctor Johnson's ears though bone-induction. "The cybernetic penis replacement is extremely complex," said Johnson, sweat starting to bead on his forehead. "The only place in the human body that has more nerve-endings than the genitals is the brain itself. We were trying to re-create the full range of sensation and satisfaction, which meant orchestrating thousands of individual neural signals. We had to give the penis an Artificial Intelligence system, just to coordinate the signals." Simmons frown deepened. Combined with his black hair and sharp goatee, it made him look quite intimidating. His eyes flickered over towards the woman. "There wasn't time to properly code an AI operating system," said Doctor Evelyn Gaites. "So we used standard format machine code; the same code that is used to orchestrate the robotic activities of most modern factories. The penis‌ the penis 'speaks' factory code." "Are you copying this, ladies?" asked Simmons. Shelly sighed. "Copy, boss. Say, here's an idea," she said, as the two women ran for the end of the alley. "How about the next time The Agency contracts with scientists, they sign a contract promising not to cut corners or interface cyber-wangs with giant robots?" "Thinking about it," said Simmons. "How much connectivity does the cyber penis have?" he asked. "Does it need to make a hard-wire connection to transfer code?" Johnson and Gaites exchanged worried glances, and Simmons poked Johnson harder in the head with the barrel of his pistol. "A hard-wire interface would have cost us weeks in maintenance time," said Johnson. "It has a mega-broadband Wi-Fi connection." "God damn it," said Rachel. "This guy's cock has more amenities than my apartment." The coppery smell of blood hit Shelly's nose, an instant before the smell of defecation. Blood and shit, the smell of someone dying badly. She held up a hand for Rachel to slow down, and they approached the source of the smell cautiously. "Boss? Third body," she said. The tactical light clipped onto her submachine pistol illuminated the dark corner of the dead-end in the alley. Rachel watched their back as Shelly got details; it took two agents to do this kind of work without getting ambushed. "Shit," said Simmons. "Can you tell who she was?"


"It's not a 'she,'" said Shelly. "I… I think it's our subject. Most of him." "What the hell?" asked Simmons. "Get me a visual, now." Shelly's headset camera took in details, and Simmons started to growl. The face matched the file pictures of Daniel Thomas, but the lower half of his abdomen was soaked in blood, and ended in a gaping hole where his genitals should have been. "My god," said Johnson. "It went to phase two." Johnson's brains splattered across the neatly-painted wall of the conference room as Simmons' pistol fired a fifty-caliber round through his skull. The resounding report of the gunshot was deafening in the small room, and Doctor Evelyn Gaites screamed and curled into the fetal position. Simmons grabbed her by her gray hair, yanked her up off the floor, and sat her on the conference table. "Phase motherfucking TWO?" he yelled. As much as Gaites would have liked to go into shock, Simmons' presence in her face was keeping her firmly rooted in her current unpleasant reality. "Withhold information from me one more time. I dare you. Leave something out that I need. One. More. Time." Gaites straightened her glasses, gathering her thoughts; quickly. "The cyber penis was designed to function as a stand-alone… it had to be. Between the AI system, the miles of sensory cable wound into it, the motive and mimetic systems, it requires more power than an office building. We couldn't use standard cybernetic power systems, so it has… it has a nuclear battery. Self-sustaining for years." Simmons shook his head. Rachel grimaced, even as Shelly took the overwatch position to allow Rachel to do her preliminary medical exam. Gaites voice faltered, but she continued. "The cyber penis was designed to continue function past the death of the owner. Your people are going to find that it wasn't the detachment of the cyber penis that killed Thomas. He was dead when that happened." "She's right," said Rachel. "Looks like his damn heart exploded. A… a while ago." "It probably happened when he was… brutalizing the second woman," said Gaites. "That was one of the design flaws that we were trying to correct when Thomas fled the facility. Apparently, the human heart can't sustain the rigorous activity of engaging in sex with the cyber penis." Simmons took a step back from her, his mind racing. "Doc? The man's legs and hips were cybernetic. So was at least half his back. Were his arms using so much energy that the blood demand blew his heart up? I don't get it… he didn't have enough meat left for his heart to get that strained." "Very good, director Simmons," said Doctor Gaites. "I can see why you're the head of the science action team. No, it wasn't the blood demand. It was the pleasure. He couldn't handle it." CONTINUED IN FULL VERSION


Community Orgy Community Orgy is supposed to be a rather clever euphemism for the "ads" section. Your first instinct may be to steer clear of these pages, but I urge you to have a look at them because they are non-paid cross-promotions between this eMagazine and other indie authors and creatives. In other words, the advertisement pages are links supporting those who support this eMagazine. As an indie author and publisher, the support of my fellow authors and creatives is as important to me as that of my readers. Without their additional support, word of this publication could not spread as far and wide as possible, so please take a look at the section, you might just find something you like. Full-Metal Orgasm icon and banner art work/illustrations by southwest-based scifi/fantasy artist John "Skip" Hawks (a.k.a. Badkungfu). Skip is a multimedia and digital artist as well as graphic designer who loves all things involving anime, manga, manhwa, graphic novels, scifi/fantasy, rock, J-rock, and hardcore metal. Visit his dA site at http://badkungfu-art.deviantart.com/ or catch him on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/skip.hawks Dead Girls — A FULL-COLOUR, 24-PAGE COMIC; 8-ISSUE SERIES Meet PRIMAVERA BOBINSKI–just one of many adolescent females that a VIRAL-NANOTECH plague is turning into cyber-dolls, or DEAD GIRLS. Meet IGGY ZWAKH–a DOLL-ADDICT, strung out on the narcotic, vampire-like kisses by which PRIMAVERA and her kind infect human males and replicate themselves. Together, these two wild, teenage runaways are set to cut a bloody swathe through the mid-21st century, from London to Bangkok, forever seeking out some place where love survives and a boy and his doll might be together. Story and script: RICHARD CALDER. Pencils, Colours & Letters: LEONARDO M GIRON Front Cover Illustration: RICK FAIRLAMB Richard Calder wrote Dead Girls while living in Thailand–principally Bangkok, and later, Nongkhai, a town on the Mekong River, bordering Laos. Other novels Dead Girls include: Dead Boys, Dead Things (which, of course, completed the acclaimed 'Dead'trilogy), Cythera, Frenzetta, The Twist, Malignos, Impakto, Lord Soho, and Babylon. Following a decade-long sojourn in Thailand, and later, the Philippines, he returned to the UK and currently lives in London. http://www.deadgirls.co.uk/ DLWarner's Yaoi @ Sybaritic Press Erotic Stories about Beautiful Men


Blogs about the Yaoi and the Yoai Community http://sybpressyaoi.com Miko: Illustrator, chaos maker, keeper of random facts, and ghosts. Out of a nebulous cloud of experiences, ethnicities, cultures, time, and places–not to mention a physical rendezvous or two between some strange humans–Miko was born. Video games, anime, manga, and hentai are all in the name of "research and development" in her world; and her notebook is filled with doodles, grocery lists, sketches, and probably artwork in pornographic, violent, or in poor taste. Drawing hentai for a publication has been one of her dreams for quite some time. http://themiko.deviantart.com/ https://www.facebook.com/pages/Miko/286003244772468 Hot Chicks: The Roleplaying Game There are about to be ten billion people on the Earth. Who's going to miss a few? Welcome to the world of 2015. Mankind's greed for wealth and knowledge has damned our collective souls. The Corporations have declared that human beings are a resource, to be used and discarded as they wish. Careless mages have released the demons of hell into the world, to prey upon human terror and suffering. Aliens from far stars have taken notice, and are preparing to harvest the entire human race for their own profit. Yeah, we're pretty much screwed. Fortunately, a very few people have realized that there is a secret war for the future and destiny of mankind, and they are going to fight for all of us. Using their Martial Arts, Cyberware, Psionics, Super Powers and Magical Spells, they will throw themselves into the battle and save mankind, or die trying. Oh, yeah. That would be you. Hot Chicks: The Roleplaying Game is a "kitchen sink" game of high cinematic action in a doomed world gone mad. Supported by over a hundred supplements, with more coming out all the time! http://www.HotChicksTheGame.com Hotlit Books Damn good books! (ebooks & more) Now offering services for the indie author come check us out today! We market to the indie author exclusively from listing their book to helping them find the right brand for their work. We are the place to come. Hotlit Books a great source for the indie author! Contact us now for your free information at http://www.hotlitbooks.com or email us at info@hotlitbooks.com Machete Girl Magazine is the premiere cyberpunk publication on the web with half a million downloads. The peeps at Machete Girl are stirring a new wave of cyberpunk culture through the magazine and their new club called B1N4RY and the soon to be announced Machete Girl TV. http://www.machetegirl.com


Toshio Maeda is one of Japan's premiere manga artists. Having got his start in Tokyo, he quickly made waves with the sexually-exciting and ground-breaking titles La Blue Girl and Urotsukidouji: Legend of the Overfiend (from which "tentacle rape" became a staple of the hentai art form). An avid fan of his fans, Mr Maeda now primarily works on his website and keeps a public profile at Facebook. He can be contacted for a variety of commissioned art works such as social networking site profile icons. For more information, please visit his site http://www.urotsukidoji.jp or Facebook https://www.facebook.com/toshio.maeda.37 Leigh M. Lane is an American writer who lives in the beautiful mountains of Montana, where she writes speculative fiction that spans from sci-fi to horror. All of her works contain a gritty realism that hallmarks her unique voice, which also often has social or political undertones. Her recent full-length releases are Finding Poe, World-Mart, and Myths of Gods. Leigh's influences include H.G. Wells, Kurt Vonnegut, Isaac Asimov, Clive Barker, Edgar Allan Poe, Rod Serling, and Stephen King. Finding Poe is a lyrical tale of horror (in both ebook and paperback formats): Follow the final moments before Edgar Allan Poe's mysterious death, journeying through twisted bits and pieces of his musings, both brilliant and mad, in search of the truth behind his final, unfinished work "The Lighthouse," while unraveling the mystery behind the elusive woman desperately seeking the author for answers behind her husband's haunted death. Catch this book, others and follow the blog of author Leigh M. Lane at http://www.cerebralwriter.com/books.html Summer Daniels, an erotica author embarking on a journey of sexual self-discovery. Join her to find out find out where it all leads through her fiction: http://sexysassysummer.blogspot.com/ & http://http://www.amazon.com/Summer-Daniels/e/B005FMQ9D0/ Shon Richards writes porn. He suffers from an incurable fear of being bored so he writes science fiction porn, wild west porn, fantasy porn, secret society porn, BDSM librarian porn, Farmer's Daughter Alamancs, and anything else that occurs to him this week. He sells several self-published books through Kindle and Lulu. His titles include His primary residence on the Internet is his blog at http://erotiterrorist.blogspot.com. Christian Krank's self-published Retro Sci-Fi Zombie Comic Tales of Dead Earth is back! 28 years after the apocalypse, Earth is a scorched wasteland. The Romero Virus transformed the majority of humankind to mindless insatiable flesh-eating undead. A


lone mysterious Girl wanders Dead Earth, searching for the last remnants of civilisation. While she approaches a mysterious Stave Church in Norway, the Romero Infected stop following her. What she doesn't know yet is that at the end of last century the Church was burned by Arsonist from the local Black Metal Scene. The Church was almost completely destroyed. But the harm to the threshold between dimensions was far worse. An old Lovecraftian Threat emerging from an aeon-old slumber, finally had his doorway... Tales of Dead Earth 2 is a 32 pg full color comic book, Widescreen-formatted, self-published, written and drawn by Comic Artist and Illustrator Christian Krank. A5 / 5.8 × 8.3inch /148 × 210mm sizing. Limited to 250 copies. Each one comes with a personal sketch on the last interior page. (Tales of Dead Earth 1 is also still available.) Pricing: 7 € (incl. postage) in Germany 8,40 € (incl. postage) in Europe 11 €/14$ (incl. postage) International (PayPal only) Order it: talesofdeadearth@googlemail.com More information: https://www.facebook.com/talesofdeadearth

Tonya R. Moore is a Speculative Fiction writer residing in Manatee County, Florida. Her short stories have been published in various indie and digital publications including Kissed By Venus, Weaponizer, Purple Magazine, eFiction Magazine and recently, the Writers on the Wrong Side of the Road anthology. Tonya R. Moore grew up on the island of Jamaica. She has been living in the United States since 1998. A full time night-shift police dispatcher, she enjoys reading and experimenting in the kitchen. She often laments her lack of a green thumb and her propensity to haplessly commit mass homicide on tankfuls of innocent aquarium fish. Bex Atria is many things. She is violent. Human. Mercenary. She is one of two billion sapient beings living aboard Hegira, a wandering world of horror and boundless beauty. Sumida is everything Bex isn't. She is soft-spoken. She is inhuman. Sheltered. She's about to turn Bex's world upside down. Meet Bex and Sumida in "Slumfairy", a space opera short in the Writers on the Wrong Side of the Road anthology. Writers on the Wrong Side of the Road is a diverse work spanning the horror, suspense, paranormal, post-apocalyptic, erotica, literary and urban fiction genres. Purchase Tonya R. Moore's http://www.tonyamoore.com

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