“FRANKENSTEIN MUST BE DESTROYED.” Here is the ultra fucking heinous trailer for the forthcoming film, “I, FRANKENSTEIN.”

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“I Am Monitored…”

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LET’S ROCK! [Concert] Moranbong Band (April 25, 2013) {DPRK Music}

Yes.

This is real.

Thanks to Gordon Mitchell ‏@gordonomicon20m

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FALL REWIND — HEXES, THE SUNDAY SPECTRA: Requiem for a Black Cat

R E Q U I E M      F O R     A     B L A C K     C A T

My beloved and ancient black cat Flood died in June. He was about 18 years old, the longest-lived cat that I ever knew. Flood’s death was hardly unexpected, but it was still pretty sad. I had spent more than a third of my life with that damn cat. Flood and I had lived together in five separate locations—four apartments and one house—and he had shared his feline dominion of those various homes with a total of 8 other cats. (Human total, 6.)  And through it all Flood had been a steadfast familiar, staring out at danger and terror and uncertainty from the safety of the shadow he always found, his eyes wild and huge and unblinking, his poor coward’s heart pounding and pounding in the dark, my poor Flood. The killer black cat that slew all the human women and rattled every nervous child who crossed his path was in reality just a big pussy, he was a real ‘fraidy cat, my Flood.

It was okay. I kept his secret for the most part, I played down his cowardice. I nodded to the slain women who affectionately stroked him and told the hesitant children that yes, Flood is wonderful and friendly and so good with people but often I wished he were just a bit more Black Panther than Cowardly Lion. The fucking Black Cat was afraid of the dark.

“So what’s so terrifying?” I asked him. “What’s out there in the dark?” Everything Flood purred bugs ghosts sounds wind birds smells and other cats, mostly. He purred, he slept. Fucking cat. Some sidekick he was.

So I taught Flood a trick so he would always have a safe perch. I would hoist him to one shoulder and he would grab hold, catch his balance, and sort of sling-grip himself across my shoulders. I could get up, walk across the room, take a piss, come back, light a cigarette, etc, and Flood would still be sitting on my shoulders, digging in with his claws, sure, but purring loudly, oh yeah, he was getting to ride the smokey giant. This started when Flood was a kitten and continued for many years; I hadn’t performed this “trick” with Flood all that much in the last five, and in the final months of his life I had begun to lament that I did not have easy access to a photograph of Flood on my shoulders. (By the time he was 18 years old I would be damned if I would stage one with his old bones.) Anyway, this is a panel by Bernie Wrightson from Poe’s THE BLACK CAT, and Flood and I looked something like this:

Flood wasn’t a total wimp. He got turned on by spectacular escapes for purposes of exploration. In his prime he could leap like a goddamn mountain lion, long black flash sailing through the air. And he could charm everyone, the fuzzy black bastard. All except one person! My son, Damien. He was not crazy about Flood, oh no. Damien was not.

Flood stands guard over Damien

Damien didn’t like being rubbed or touched by Flood. Poor kid. The smallest and youngest need someone to kick. Anyway. As Flood grew weak in his final weeks, Damien often asked me what Flood would look like in the ground, once he was dead, as Damien was aware via my gently shared plans that we would take care of Flood until he was gone, and then we would have a funeral for him in the woods, with a grave so he and Dakota might visit Flood whenever they wished. “But what will he look like in the ground?” This satisfied him, sort of:

Then, Flood died.

Three Feet Down, Maybe

So Long, Buddy

†  †  †

So it’s all done, and the kids and the Warrior Woman go back to the house but I am hanging graveside for a bit, hanging with Flood, now a true ghost and shadow cat. The cross thing was a happy accident from the pieces of broken paving donated by my neighbor, THE CROSS was a touch the kids appreciated. I was more concerned about the stones preventing animals from digging up my poor cat. And speak of the devil, there came the crunch of an animal in the woods as I stood by Flood’s grave. It was a deer, circling around. Deer are very common where I live, so the moment didn’t bowl me over with “magic,” as in, “and oh, the animals of the forest came to pay their respect to noble Flood,” or some such nonsense. No, it was a goddamn deer crunching around in the woods, and I stood by my dead cat’s grave and smoked my cigarette and waited for the deer to go away.

It didn’t go away. It kept circling closer, closer. So I thought, Fuck it, take a picture.

Nothing, not even close, except for that last one. That little bright spot is the doe’s eye, looking at me. She kept nosing closer and closer and so yeah finally, it was weird. “Is this the spirit that has been chasing my poor cat his whole life?” I said out loud. “Is this it?” I asked Flood. “This the creep?”

Flood didn’t seem to think so. He had been so tired.  It seemed ok. The black cat was finally not afraid.

†  †  †

Text © Simon Drax

Image Credits

Cover Illustration by Audrey May Erickson | Black Cat posters and Bernie Wrightson illustration via Golden Age Comic Book Stories | Cat Skeleton by Alisongrl | All other photographs by the author

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Happy FALL Rewind: “Rod, you holding anyone good, man?” [nsfw, 17+]

“Well, who you looking for, kid?”

“The dream girl. I’m still looking for the right dream girl. From a story. Jesus, I come every Monday.”

“Oh, right, you. Hey! Weird cat trying to groove on the feel-bad babes. That’s a special crowd, boy. What’s the matter, kid? The other stories no good? Those sad tragic dames still don’t do it for ya, huh? Huh? Huh punk?”

“She keeps changing. In my head. I keep looking. It’s strange. So, Admiral! What’s the op? You holding any good merch this week or not?”

“I only move quality. But for you? This week, we’re moving some Drax, Simon Drax of the dooom-punk and the Dormammu. First up, whoa, she’s a pistol! Mori Kim Marr from Exit Vector. She’s a handful, tiger! Happy only when blind stinking drunk with the VODKA. Very bad attitude and real, real easy on the mass-destruction trigger-finger, she destroys Heaven by accident, and that ain’t half. Mori’s a pistol. Good price, too. Mori comes for free. Just like death.”

photo manip W Ryder by The Creep in the AD 

“Not bad, pops. Who else you got?”

“Ooh, we’re going to have to go up several floors for our next tragic dream story lady, you jazzy brat. Our next girl’s very high maintenance. Gloriana Blitz from DOOMTROOPERS has the weight of a broken world on her bare shoulders! Another big drinker. Daughter of a GOD! Leader of the last kids on Earth! My god, when this girl cuts loose, you’re going to need to run, you’re going to need a bomb shelter. On Pluto.”

illustration by Jo Chen

“She seems a little a bright and loud.”

“Well, yes, she’s a cartoon. But a very heartfelt cartoon, friend.”

“Anyone else?”

“The best. A Saint, touched by God and the whole hot sticky Catholic mess. Catherine Marie Merrin from A Very Fast Descent into Hell.

And the crazy beat behind the counter in the shop of bottled dreams continues, “Catherine from Descent is the best heroine and the best dream girl, because clearly, she’s too good to be true. She really is a Saint, and consequently a little daft in the head, but we’ll get to that. Catherine is generous and brave and heroic and clever and cunning and loyal and she has an exceptional high tolerance for pain. She will not eat the last cookie. She will let you control the remote. She will give you more than her share of the blanket. She will be mindful to never hit or hurt the twitchy weak spots in your flimsy male ego. She has consideration for all, even obnoxious, terrible people nobody likes. There is something wrong with Catherine’s brain.”

He taps his head. “Neurologically. Something wrong. Like a psychopath, only reversed. Catherine can’t shut off the empathy. Her sensory input is like the ocean. She had a difficult childhood. She was massacred on the playground. Her mother was afraid. Her father wasn’t there. Everyone thought Catherine had a learning disability. She stayed inside and read a lot of books. She stayed back twice. It did not help. She decided she would become a Nun and give herself to God. But that didn’t work out, because the world went to Hell, fast! And it was literally in that free fall of total societal collapse that poor chemically-impaired Catherine Marie Merrin underwent a seismic and irreversible change: the girl learned the word ‘No.’ And not just a schism of character, an irreversible before-and-after—no, no, not just that, my young friend—she found a mission. Saint Catherine found a mission. Saint Catherine must slay the Hollow Priest. She must overcome everything, even when all are against her, even when she’s tied and burned at the stake on the first page of this bottled bad dream, later beset by a demon, and finally flung on a slow tidal wave of undying flesh—”

“Hey, heavy! Very Dormammu. How much is she?”

2.99 @ amazon. 99 cents at B&N, iTunes, Smashwords! Plus the usual joints. But this one…”

“Relax, old man. Sold.”

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Yes, it’s only a commercial. Apologies to the Shade of Rod Serling.

 

Yes We Are Still Alive…

… it’s just that everything looks like THIS.

Hyperhex by Zali Krishna

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The Drowning Corridor (a horror story inspired by MlleGhoul)

Drowning Corridor

Photo on 2013-09-17 at 20.49

A work in progress. Obviously.

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Wow, Remember When The Creep in the Art Department Did Shit Like This?

tumblr_lb5ygzClrb1qcfe35o1_1280

Ashes.

Goodbye, August

A-Bomb Terror

by Yoshito Matsushige

Hiroshima, August 6th, 1945. The mushroom cloud, photographed approximately 1.6 miles from ground zero.

“Those of us who experienced all these hardships, we hope that such suffering will never be experienced again by our children and our grandchildren. Not only our children and grandchildren, but all future generations should not have to go through this tragedy. That is why I want young people to listen to our testimonies and to choose the right path, the path which leads to peace.”

~ Yoshito Matsushige (via Iconic Photos)

Go, August. Go away.

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“A WORLDCON GUIDE: THE CARE AND FEEDING OF ME,” by Nick Mamatas

Mamatas_Nellie_3

“A WORLDCON GUIDE: THE CARE AND FEEDING OF ME,” by Nick Mamatas

As you know, science fiction conventions can be a great place to meet people, and interact with fans and online acquaintances. In recent years, before large cons, folks have taken to blogging about their personal preferences for friendly interactions. Well, it seems like a good idea—so here are mine.

I don’t remember that thing you think I said, did, tweeted, or pointed to three years ago. So don’t bother bringing it up. In fact don’t even fucking talk to me.

Actually, don’t look at me. AVERT YOUR EYES when you see me coming down the hall.

Don’t talk about the elevator in the goddamn elevator, as I’ve said a million times already. How come nobody remembers that one!

I don’t care about your stupid book.

You smell. Yeah, it’s not about how I like to be treated per se, but it’s true. You smell.

Remember when I said don’t talk to me. Don’t try to talk to me by offering me drink or holding up a sign or doing sign language.

Yes I like cookies and snacks but please don’t offer me any because I don’t want to think about your filthy disgusting hands and rank and wormy fingers. I certainly don’t want to sit across from you as you eat a tasteless hotel salad or an inexplicably expensive hamburger. Your horrid mouth makes me want to weld your lips shut forever.

I have a broken toe and am wearing a hard boot. If you’re curious as to how I broke it, well it was when I shoved my foot up the ass of the last person who looked at me, came up to me, and said, “Hey, remember when you made that post about marzipan and Full Communism? Haha, that was funny! How is your dog?”

Don’t you dare give me a goddamn business card or bookmark.

I pronounce the word “corset” like so: cor-say. I do this to annoy you.

What do I think of Texas? I hate Texas. How was my flight—I’m guessing it’ll be shitty.

I can’t hear a word you’re saying, so don’t just repeat yourself with the same words, tone, and volume. What you should do instead is open your mouth wide, take the fire extinguisher from the wall, point the nozzle at your mouth, and squeeze the trigger.

I think Ben Affleck will make about as good a Batman as anybody else. Okay?

DO NOT ATTEMPT TO EXPLAIN WHY YOUR T-SHIRT IS FUNNY.

Don’t filk at me.

Please don’t attempt to show me a racist movie because you think I need a lesson on what racist movies look like.

Now let’s all have a fun Worldcon, fans!

WorldCon-in-San-Antonio

Text © 2013 Nick Mamatas

Worldcon Promo from here

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