GELATINIZED CADAVER PUPPET (aka if you're going to live in my head, you're going to live by my rules)
from INORE (unreleased)
Grift Pivot.
A chassis of girders bent sharp into crab legs and blowtorch-glued to the guts of an ice resurfacing machine that’s been augmented with mist gun appendages and just over a dozen weed eaters daisy-chained into a coiled scorpion tail that's been attached to the rim of a concrete mixer, whirring as if a scimitar was rotating to dislodge itself from the cavity of a spider abdomen. The driver is a head with arms behind the ears, a fluffed toupee of cotton candy attic insulation weaved through an exposed brain crown with copper wire, its flesh over-stapled to the padding of the seat. It resembles an enlarged parodic effigy of a disdained authoritarian, puckered mouth sphincter-tight, skull-skin varnished with diarrheal condensation from the sewer pipe vapor emanating from his pepperoni-bleached ocular cavities.
A blue figure obstructs the metal art mutant, staring it down as if they were a student idealist undercutting the path of an armed government response to an anti-war demonstration. The blue figure is wearing the kind of suit and mask combo that Mexican wrestlers employ during press conferences, their ectoplasm balaclava lensed with cleaver-shapes, a rat king embroidered between the nose and the chin. The figure raises their rust-gloved right hand, the thumb, index, and middle fingers extended forward, touching tips to form a pinched shut pyramid claw.
The figure snaps the fingers, extending the thumb in front of their masked head while the index and middle digits point down. This is the cue for a second figure to launch into attack. This one is a bit larger and darker, heel-to-throat in charnel house camouflage, face completely shawled with a suture-webbed leather cowl, a spade-pleated hog snout fitted over the jaw like a muzzle on a fighting dog.
The black figure is wielding some kind of a kit-bashed amalgam of a jackhammer and a gatling gun, which they route shank-first toward the probable brain-door of the vehicular kaiju, aiming for the back of the head by going through its front.
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from STUCK PIG (also unreleased)
Despite their obstinate animus, Stuck Pig and SGE have been known to table their blood feud in order to unite against more repugnant threats to the Hideomous livelihood, most famously during the rampage period of disgraced ex-president Dax Spamin, who had been hastily reconstructed by the data-mining crypto-baron Mark Daga (with a generous dark money stipend from the Global Mass Organhood).
Spamin’s dis-cored body husk had been wrapped around a motorized dummy torso… its limbs alloyed with mid-tech weaponry. The dung heap lard pocket was then fused to the seat of a scrap-armored ice resurfacer, granting the junk-thought automaton a wheeled mobility. In a publicity bid engineered to exploit outer-urban moral panics, Daga then dropped this tread-hoofed grease-cretin into what he erroneously believed was the nerve center of Hideomous Amalgangland.
Turns out the toilet-jaundiced sundowner had taken a wrong turn, ending up in the neutral grounds of the Sack Lunch district, where the preferred sandwich shops of both Stuck Pig and SGE are located.
The palsy-swaying choad-surfer was not so much mailed back to Daga'’s home office as it was thrown out the side door of Loa’s still running candy van in a gear-flecked spew, hacked to sparkling pieces by SGE’s large assortment of panga-handled buzzsaws and bludgeoned to liquid uselessness by Stuck Pig’s mini-gun pavement breaker.
A co-authored message had been slashed with ink into the hollows of Spamin’s shank-caverned jowls, its crabbed signature a pair of familiar cyphers;
Make THIS Great Again, you fucking dork.
SP + SVK
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