BARRAGE TAPES preview
teenager stands atop an apartment complex, drunk on vodka. he steps to the ledge. there's a not un-substantial crowd of his peers (as well as a smattering of those younger and older, if only slight in that difference). the teenager shouts some boilerplate entry-level subversions, imagining they will be met with thunderous enthusiasm among the briskly multiplying hordes below.
a mouse-whisper from one of the onlookers sounds like the word "jump", its deelavated volume still not enough to mute its tone of caustic indifference. in no short order, it becomes a chant propelled with the roar of a max-capacity coliseum.
the teenager's face sparks with the twitch of immediate revelation. he unzips his damp jeans, pulling them down to his feet. he is not wearing underwear. it his intent to follow through with the monosyllabic demands of the horde; with an added twist of full frontal post-pubescent nudity.
the pants are crumbled around his ankles; denim shackles that serve to further enhance the inherent clumsiness of the high school archetype he finds himself currently inhabiting, already compounded by drink. balance is lost.
the teenager falls off the ledge, but rather than soaring majestically like an adolescent superhero whose dormant power of flight has finally bloomed to maturity, the entire front of his body; face, chest, cock, and balls, smash against the unforgiving brick wall of the apartment complex. he scales the building in reverse, the bricks scraping deep cuts off skin, meat, and bone for the duration of the teenager's plummet, graffiti-tagging the apartment with a crude animatic of exploding gore caught in the uptick of a violent dust storm, blood splatter in a Sienkiewicz patterning, clogged and lumpy with ribcage scraps and testicular mash.
the teenager lands upon the cap of his skull, spine shooting out just above his asshole, ruptured feces clinging on the bone. the teenager looks like a mid-process capture of the human body's attempt to turn itself inside out, forgoing the aid of black magician or mad scientist intervention to smooth out the operation, or a weekend sex-change performed by an amateur surgeon in a hotel lobby who normally specializes in coat hanger abortions.
the teenager is still cognizant enough to conjure a vision of what his life might be like should he survive; wheel chairs, steel rod spinal columns, skin grafts that make his flesh appear forever moistened and unresponsive. eyes of cloudy grey yolk that rest like those of a cow's severed, skinned head.
he'd make a great micro-villain in a substandard paperback novel; reaping bloody vengeance on the careless mob who goaded him into this monstrous state... but mostly he would just struggle with breathing and wheeze and cry.... nerves tamped down to a medicinal mash that impedes the reality of his intolerable stupidity from proper reminders of the full depth and range of its sanity-shredding extremes, chemical diets dialing back the pains that if fully actualized would leave the teenager as no more than a moaning grub.
with the last flicker of aspiration he hopes to die and for his corpse to be utilized in the sex games of adventurous necrophiliacs.
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i met Rina at TATTERDEMALLION. we connected over mutual interests in extreme music and underground films. i brought her back to the house in Moebrell i had just bought as a gift to myself to celebrate the success of the Hans Klate: Vulnerable Adult instillation. i was at Tatterdemallion for the same reason. I "wooed" her with an imported DVD of the lost post-gialli/pre-slasher classic HEADGEAR, though judging by where her eyes darted she was more curious about the tapes from Daxis' Cutter series of mondo/barrage tapes. Still, her attention eventually fixated on HEADGEAR, particularly the scene where the sexy couple are chained to the Figure's wall, forced to watch the mutilated remains of another sexy couple being eaten by dogs before The Figure bludgeons them to death with the gnawed limbs. that seemed to really excite her. even after so many repeated viewing, I too become transfixed at that moment, but not so transfixed that i failed to notice the skin of my cock being slicked by the inside of her mouth.
despite my extensive library of grisly horror films and extreme pornography across multiple mediums, i've yet to truly satiate the labyrinthian reems of my own prurience. something inside draws me to these scenarios... something beyond mere shock. whenever i met a girl alien to these materials, or acquainted with them on a superficial level, i would hide beyond ironic detachment or some trite platitudes about catharsis or stress relief, that i would never do these things for real, that i appreciated the level of work it took to make these simulations as arresting as they are... and so on.
the truth is... i want to break out and live by the warmth of my crotch.
Rina was not only receptive, but had been far more experienced than i had initially assumed upon the first glance. she in no way filled the archetypal mold of the vampy S&M goddess; forceful, buxom, strongly built... a pin-up model from hell. on the surface, she was quite mousy; conservatively dressed, thin lips, sharp nose, hay-haired, always holding her elbows in public, wiry frame... the kind of physique that might invite speculations of malnourishment, but once the clothes came off it reveals itself to be taunt, well toned, cut, with what the proverbial they might refer to as a "bubble ass"; bitable and buoyant.
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the body Rina had tied from the ceiling was even more gaunt than she; overstaved to skeletal severity, bones a millimeter from tearing through the flesh. the signature of this torture's fashion was sex annihilation; with no hair, muscle, or fat strategically placed, the figure's only remaining strand tethering it to a defined gender is genitalia, which she has removed in a method so total that no trace of origin could be made the subject of speculation.
the skin had been removed from the side and back of the body's head, a burgundy hood that created the illusion of being pulled so tight the face-skin bulged from the hood's opening. the eyelids and lips had been snipped off, widening the eyes and exposing the teeth. the nose had been removed as well; a pair of teardrop craters, cartilage crusted at its edge from hardened bloody mucus. she had framed the facial skin in such a way that it gave the impression of a hurriedly stenciled skeleton head peering out from a robe of wet gauze.
Rina clipped the wires that held the jaw shut. she pinched the hidden tongue, stretching until it protruded from the organ's port. she began to suck it the way she sucks cock. she motioned for me to join her. we took turns felating the slaughter house scarecrow's tongue, each of us jamming the other's head on it, forcing gaggings. the tongue was lathed in accumulated filth, mostly that brown-white philm that collects on the surface of a dry mouth. i raked my teeth over it, pressing it through their gaps, swishing it around until she sucked the corpse face juice out of me, stealing a quick taste before spitting it into the body's eyes.
"Klate. Here." said Rina.
i get behind the body. a thick, dark, long cut went down the back, stopping at the tailbone. the figure's asshole was held open with stainless steel speculums, a penny-scented cracked meat knot she took the care to smear with a lubricant that brought out the metallic flesh odor rather than have it masked. the lubricant was so heavily placed on this post-orifice that it dropped tiny gobs on my cock, like the creamed drool of some omni-sexual sea creature, wordlessly insisting that you rape its face.
even pulled open wide and greased with lube, the body's ass was the tightest hole i had ever fucked. Rina assisted briefly by wetting her hand with her own gaggings and stroking my cock, lacquering the meat with throat sealant, gobbing white bile like an outmoded punk rock stereotype, thin stomach acid feeling like a spritz of warm milk.
My cock now glazed in a myriad of DNA mediums, i went back to coring the figure's cavity hole. Rina stepped behind me, rubbing the tips of her finger around my asshole, nibbling my ear. pulls my hair and turns my head until our lips are level. open our mouths and trade tongue-sucks. I feel something other than her hand brushing up my asshole; something cylindrical and leathery protruding from Rina's mound.
Rina slinks from my back to front of the body and i catch a glimpse of the protrusion; a strap-on fashioned from what i could only guess are repurposed black driving gloves. she meets my gaze, smiles warmly, and positions her custom phallus at the wounded crotch.
Rina's thrusts are in near-alignment with my own. we wrap our arms around each other, pulling ourselves in close, eyes locked as we twin-fuck the body, intensely studying our cum-masks.
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materials believed to have leaked from the archives of THE NEW NORMAL were found at the headquarters of Suasan County Civil Service, left in a copy machine near the office of Assistant Director RINA GRISUM.
the text was heavily coded, but it suggests an outline a kind of ritual referred to as "Gesture Axis". in the ritual, a woman wearing a kind of body suit called a "Tulpore" and a man wearing a large helmet called a "Canoculus" are to engange in a very specific type of sexual congress, preferably in a large open area, like a beach or a park.
the coupling is to be officiated by a New Normal "Invalidist"; a high ranking member of the collective, preferably a woman, clad in a tight fitting 3 button collar black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, blue jeans, pointed black boots, half palm gloves, mirrored sunglasses, and a surgical mask detailed with the New Normal emblem; a tentacle-winged headless human torso with four arms and crab legs.
The Invaldist will be wired into the New Normal Power Grid, where they are able to break into cable and internet signals so they can broadcast the Gesture Axis throughout the world.
upon the mutually assured completion of both Tulpore and Canoculus, the core of the earth, fertilized by the serrated sperms of the AGGRABATORS, will void its contents, releasing a fully incubated creature, referred to by the New Normal as "HAZARAG NOMUNAC", believed to be a perma-expanding omnivorous entity whose shape is approximated in the aforementioned crest of the New Normal.
other details await further decoding.
- Helen Mawdhit, posted on her blog Vulnerable Adult.__________________________________
LONG ISLAND VIDEO 13 NEWS REPORTING: noted fetish photographer (and Moebrell resident) HANS KLATE has been reported missing.
KLATE recently received the most rewarding feedback of his near 20 year career for the film adaptation (and corresponding illustrated narrative photobook) of Richey Walker's SEWER MOONS text, which was originally read on-stage at TATTERDEMALION with musical accompaniment by CHIAKI FUJIWARA and an "freeform interpretation" of the text by adult film megastars AEVEA WITHIN and MISKI KANNA, with the latter two appearing in the film to "expand upon and deeper inhabit the universe laid out in WALKER's original text" (quote from HANS KLATE in an interview w/ Circuit Rapture, KLATE's most recent).
[an extended Hard-XXX cut was released through Within's PERPETUALLY CONSUMING PASSIONS production company, with further embellishments provided by Within herself, which served to connect Sewer Moons to all the films produced and released through PERPETUALLY CONSUMING PASSIONS.]
the report comes a mere days after an anonymous post leaked on various social media platforms that seemed to insinuate KLATE's connection with the shadowy tube site known as DEEP WEB MACUMBA, even going as far as to suggest that KLATE is the site's webmaster and primary content creator; the enigmatic "DAXIS", whose clips are the most well produced on the site, but also the most savage and upsetting.
the post was later attributed to the cryptocratic collective known as THE NEW NORMAL, once it was discovered that the only letters that were capitalized in the body of the text spelled out the words "HAZARAG NOMUNAC", the name of the entity which circles the crest of THE NEW NORMAL; a tentacle-winged human torso with four arms and crab legs.
much of the clips that find their way onto DEEP WEB MACUMBA's platform exist just outside of snuff, mostly found footage of grisly accidents and nastier varieties of homemade pornography, but there have been clips that fully exhibit the formulas of the "hurtcore" genre, where the "performers" are beaten a mere inches away from death, but still manage to survive, dodging the snuff tag.
the DAXIS series is the most viewed on the site, although many call their reality into question, citing the clips as fakes, their fraudulence well-concealed by lighting and camera tricks.
there have been no charges brought against the site, as no missing persons have been traced to any performers in the clips being hosted by the page, but the site still has managed to receive numerous calls for its complete and total shutdown, due in no small part to its humorless cruelty, harsh atmosphere, and grimy visual pallet.
the report was filed by KLATE's mother, YOLANDA KLATE; a former pin-up model / burlesque performer, who found an enduring cult status in the late 1970s when she was the muse for exploitation powerhouse BOYD GINTLOAD, appearing first in THE BEHE MOTHS both as one of the many oversexed humans and also wearing the costume of "LIV", one of the titular monsters in the film, and going on to headline GINTLOAD's highly successful return-to-form revenge feature NEXT TIME I'M COMING INSIDE.
in the 1980s YOLANDA KLATE further expanded on her cult icon status as "LYCIRA", the "cheeky" host of a widely syndicated late night block of B movies called LYCIRA'S LOW CUTS, which remains a fixture on our sister station Ch. 11's "Blue Market Block" of late night programming.
as "The Nocturnal Emmissionary", LYCIRA was defined her trademark look; flowing silver hair, spider-web gossamer veil, and bordering-on-sheer violet dress, its plunging neckline cut to resemble the silhouette of an octopus.
in addition to acting as a showcase for her eternally shapely physique and talent for body language and facial mugging, "LYCIRA" would also use the show to occasionally turn her acerbic wit on herself by showcasing truncated versions of her own B pictures from the 1970s, while dropping obscure bits of knowledge and gossip she acquired from her extended period involved with that milieu.
although YOLANDA KLATE herself has been living a more quiet life since the early 00s, LYCIRA still maintains a devoted fanbase, living on in merchandise and media, with a long running comic book series published by ARCHTYPE COMICS that appeared after being a back-up story in issues of the publisher's two flagship titles; DETRITAN and HARD P.I.L.L. (PUNISHING IRREDEEMABLE LOATHERS of LIFE).
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Rina had dusted the orifice with fine shards of glass, the same glass shards she used to cut up the boy. gave the wounds a crystal scabbing that left her leather-cock glittering. even though she assured me that she didn't put glass in the boy's anal cavity, and there were no wounds or any indication on my cock that i had been fucking a pail of broken glass, i could picture her blowing some glass-dust up there with a straw, and the very idea made my piss sharp.
two nights later Rina presented me with a gift; the boy's spinal column, smoothed and trimmed into a very specific type of double-headed dildo; one side fitted for a cunt and the other fitted for an asshole. we went ass-to-ass on it for a while before spinning around and facing each other, scissor-fucking while we flicked and tugged cock and cunt.
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