STUCK PIG preview

 

B-A-W lieutenant Fucked Buttholes staggers from the cooked rubble of the amalgang’s hideaway, stained to the marrow with highly concentrated carbon monoxide. He collapses to the ground in a spiraling crumble, his back punctured with an array of no less than thirteen knives. 

The bottoms of the knife handles are ornamented with chromium pig skulls, turning Fucked Buttholes into a play set recreation of wild animal heads impaled on wooden pikes across the encampment of a lost cannibal tribe. 

An outline of the stabber manifests in volcanic silhouette, the wide birth of their seething contempt projected in full through a simple heave of their ashy denim chest. 

The scenario is observed through a high-powered telescope that has been positioned  behind the crossword puzzle of mirrored windows on Suskind Tower’s thirteenth floor… to be burned by the molecule into the obtuse mindscape of the building’s senior-most occupant; a smoke-haired woman… visage sealed in a skin care mask of barcodes… celadon flesh robed in a knee-length silk kimono… concord grape with a floral pattern of curling squid tentacles. 

“You were expecting perhaps a child army recruitment arcade?” 

NCP