Year's Best Hardcore Horror Volume 2 Read online

  Praise for Year's Best Hardcore Horror Vol. 2

  "...glutted with graphic scenes of torture, dismemberment, evisceration, and pornographic sex." Publishers Weekly

  ALSO BY RANDY CHANDLER

  EDITOR:

  Year's Best Hardcore Horror Vol. 1

  Stiff Things: The Splatterporn Anthology

  NOVELS AND COLLECTIONS:

  Bad Juju

  Daemon of the Dark Wood

  Devils, Death & Dark Wonders

  Dime Detective

  Duet for the Devil (with t. winter-damon)

  Hellz Bellz

  EDITED BY CHERYL MULLENAX

  Year's Best Hardcore Horror Vol. 1

  Stiff Things: The Splatterporn Anthology

  Vile Things: Extreme Deviations of Horror

  Sick Things: Extreme Creature Anthology

  The Death Panel: Murder, Mayhem and Madness

  Necro Files: Two Decades of Extreme Horror

  Deadcore: 4 Hardcore Zombie Novellas

  Deadlines: Horror and Dark Fiction

  First Comet Press Electronic Edition, June 2017

  Year’s Best Hardcore Horror Volume 2 copyright © 2017

  by Randy Chandler and Cheryl Mullenax

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover and interior by Inkubus Design www.inkubusdesign.com

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Print ISBN 13: 978-1-936964-62-8

  Visit Comet Press on the web at:

  www.cometpress.us

  facebook.com/cometpress

  twitter.com/cometpress

  Copyrights continued here

  Diabolically dedicated to all the hardcore and extreme publishers, editors, and authors.

  CONTENTS

  THE MOSH PIT

  Hardcore Corps of Extremity Explorers

  Ultimate list of reader-recommended hardcore and extreme books.

  ELEPHANTINE EXTREMES: INTRODUCTION

  Randy Chandler & Cheryl Mullenax

  55 WAYS I’D PREFER NOT TO DIE

  Michael A. Arnzen

  AMERICAN GODS, AMERICAN MONSTERS

  Jose Cruz

  MOTHER’S NATURE

  Stefanie Elrick

  THE CONTRACT

  Paolo Di Orazio

  OWNERSHIP

  Wrath James White

  THE HALLOWFIEND REMEMBERS

  Jeremy Thompson

  THE FIELD

  Marvin Brown

  A FACE IN THE CROWD

  Tim Waggoner

  REDUX

  Alexandra Renwick

  OUT HUNTING FOR TEETH

  William Grabowski

  KOZMIC BLUES

  Alessandro Manzetti

  SELECTED POEMS FROM BROTHEL

  Stephanie M. Wytovich

  COMING OF THE DARKULA

  Andrew Darlington

  LITTLE SISTER, LITTLE BROTHER

  Sarah L. Johnson

  MISS_VERTEBRAE

  Eric LaRocca

  BED OF CRIMSON JOY

  Jasper Bark

  PLEASE SUBSCRIBE

  Adam Cesare

  BACKNE

  Tim Miller

  THE GIRL WHO LOVED BRUCE CAMPBELL

  Christa Carmen

  IMPLANT

  Bryan Smith

  FATHER OF DREAD

  Matthew Chabin

  ON THIS SIDE OF BLOODLETTING

  Stephanie M. Wytovich

  About The Authors

  ELEPHANTINE EXTREMES

  INTRODUCTION by RANDY CHANDLER & CHERYL MULLENAX

  Extreme horror. You know it when you see it, right? The hard stuff. Be it extreme in theme or with gore galore, you know hardcore.

  It’s the explicitly graphic stuff its creators delight in showing you after ripping your eyelids off, right before slamming your naked face into the disgusting goo.

  It’s the “gushy stuff,” as a prolific living-legend once called it.

  Hardcore comes in many shapes and guises. It may be torture porn, body horror, erotic splatterporn, or virtually any sort of horror tale imaginable, from low-keyed but no less disturbing psychological horror to the hardest prurient pervo stuff laid bare simply for shock value. Of course the best hardcore is more than the gore on the floor, the needle in the eye, or the deadly instrument hitting the vital organ. Much more, and that’s why a precise and satisfying definition is not easy to come by.

  Remember the parable of the blind men and the elephant? A small group of blind men are asked to feel a different part of an elephant’s anatomy and then recount what they think an elephant is. Naturally each has a different idea of what the thing is. The guy who touches the tail thinks it’s like a rope, the one who touches the trunk thinks the thing is like a tree branch, the dude who touches a leg believes the elephant is like a great pillar, the one who fingers the ear thinks of a big fan, and so on. The allegory is used to illustrate various abstract concepts having to do with subjective experience, truth and the nature of reality.

  Okay. Now give this ancient folktale a hardcore horror twist and boom! The elephant suddenly goes wild and unleashes an avalanche of very loose poop on the blind man holding his tail, grabs another up with his trunk and smashes him into the ground and then impales another with a deadly tusk. Finally the creature stomps away, trampling another man as he goes. The lucky few that survive the elephant’s mad rampage still cannot agree on the precise nature of the awesome power they’ve just experienced but they can agree that it was nasty, brutal and horrific. Not to mention malodorous as hell.

  Ask any number of horror readers to define hardcore horror and you’d probably get just as many definitions, even though they have all “seen the elephant.”

  What we’re getting at here is that the stories in the pages ahead might be said to represent various parts of horror’s extremities. Yes, there will be blood. Lots of it. Gore galore and plenty of the aforementioned gushy stuff. But you’ll also find tales less graphic but with hardcore attitudes or extreme themes, transgressive stories you’re not sure you should be reading, stories showing you things you shouldn’t see.

  Recently we asked a group of horror writers to define hardcore horror, Wrath James White came up with what we think is the best response: “Hardcore horror epitomizes the axiom ‘Show. Don’t tell.’ It does not leave the sex and violence to the reader’s imagination. It shows the reader what’s in the writer’s imagination. No ideas, themes, plots, or images are taboo. It is born of the taboo. Awww, hell. Let me just write it.”

  As if we could stop him, even if we wanted to—which we don’t. Write on, Mr. White. Write on.

  The stories and poems within these pages represent the best hardcore horror of 2016. They are, in fact, the best we could find. It’s not possible to read everything published but of all we did read, this is the bloody cream of the creepy crop.

  Now a word of warning before we turn you loose. You will find no “safe spaces” here. If you are easily offended or of delicate sensibilities, you’d best not enter. I
f you do forge ahead, you will see the elephant. Pray the elephant doesn’t see you.

  Cheryl Mullenax & Randy Chandler

  January 13, 2017

  55 WAYS I’D PREFER NOT TO DIE

  MICHAEL A. ARNZEN

  From 555 Vol 2: This Head, These Limbs

  Editor: Joseph Bouthiette Jr.

  Publisher: Carrion Blue

  ______

  E SCALATOR

  The teeth munch my left foot just as I step onto the escalator, the steel chewing my ankle. I struggle, but no one notices as I am swallowed by the sinking steps at the bottom. I flip into a topsy-turvy mall where organic items shop for people stuck in the rotator like a shooting gallery.

  CHAINSAW

  Unlike most killers, chainsaw murderers don’t care much about the clean-up afterward. That’s why they use a sloppy lopper in the first place—they love a bloody good mess. I can appreciate that, and I don’t fear losing a limb. It’s just a terrible way to find out I forgot to booster my tetanus shot.

  RUN OVER

  There’s a difference between being “run over” and “hit by a car.” Run over is what happens when your body folds under the bumper and is torn apart by the automobile’s undercarriage—your brains smeared on the exhaust system and flesh spit out like mud from spun tires. It’s the next car that hits you.

  TASER

  Don’t tase me, Bro! Don’t tase me, Sis! Don’t tase me, Mom. Don’t tase me, Pap. Don’t tase me, Grandpap. Don’t tase me, Grammygoo. Don’t tase me, Uncle Charlie. Don’t tase me, Auntie Sue. Don’t tase me, Buddy. Don’t tase me, Boss. Don’t tase me, Mister President. Don’t tase me, God. God! Don’t tase me!

  AMUSEMENT PARK RIDE #1: THE SWINGER

  The Swinger spins and our playground seats catch wind, angling sideways as we accelerate too fast for such weak fabric and chain.

  “STOP!” I cry.

  The carny obeys, and the sudden stop sends all the swings twisting into each other, wringing the rusty metal and children off the ride like crud from a bloody mop.

  ENNUI

  I hate the kissy face I make when I say “ennui.” I trim my lips off with a nearby razor. “Enn-eee,” I say. Still too French. I slice out my tongue, slippery as a fish in my sloppy mouth bowl of blood. “Uhnnn …” Nope—your turn, teeth.

  I smile at my gory mirror face: “Eeee!”

  CHEERLEADER PYRAMID ACCIDENT

  I probably deserved it when the pyramid of sweaty cheerleaders toppled upon me, crushing my rib-cage in a flurry of bone and scrunchies and tartan up-skirts—so many plastic pompoms pummeling my face and crushing my throat from the weight—a mass of perky prettiness screaming in that way that is sort of still cheering.

  BURIED ALIVE

  The intrepid beach comber lazily waves his metal detector until it beeps so loudly he tosses his headphones.

  He brushes sand and exposes my skull.

  My jaws, full of tokens: a tiny top hat. A small Scottish Terrier. A baby battleship. Dice.

  A sand-scratched monocle rests above an orbital fracture.

  Me, buried beneath the Boardwalk.

  SINUS ALLERGIES

  I’m writing, trying to shut out the springtime sounds of neighborhood weed whackers. The murder scene I’m describing requires concentrated research. In it, my murderer is carving up a face, scooping flesh and peeling back bones to layout the sinus cavity. It’s a Rorschach blot of bloody snot.

  I sneeze on my mirror and continue.

  AMUSEMENT PARK RIDE #2: ROLLER COASTER

  When the roller coaster plunges, people always throw their arms up above them like they are making jazz hands in the face of oblivion, while everyone else clutches the guard bar. Not me. I choke the throat of the person in front of me and bottle up their scream to make a human air bag.

  EMERGENCY BROADCAST SYSTEM

  We’re blasting the concert on TV, dancing oblivious, when that obnoxious Emergency Broadcast Signal takes over my surround sound equipment. Hella loud. At such volume, we clutch our ears in pain.

  A staticky voice reassures: “This has only been a test … If this had been a real emergency … well …”

  My speakers explode, killing us all.

  DARTS

  Not only does he draw a dartboard on my face, but he colors in the numbered wedges with black and red sharpies. He measures the official position, ticks the line on the ground, and throws. I laugh when he misses, but not just because of that. He uses juggling cleavers for darts, so why bother?

  DIRTY DIAPERS

  I leap from the hospital roof, landing in a steaming dumpster marked BIOHAZARD. The bin brims with diapers; they splash when they catch my fall.

  Lacquered in shit, I clamber through a plastic haze of stinky diapers, only to slip and lacerate an artery on a scalpel sticking out of a bloody baby bearing one.

  MER-DUR

  My sinking like a stone to the bottom of the sea is experienced in shockwaves. First, I’m shocked that mermaids actually exist! The next shocker occurs when I see their beautiful heads swarm with spark-flashing electric eels. These eels shock me with 650 volts. But it’s the Mer-Medusa’s gaze that ultimately turns me to stone.

  AMUSEMENT PARK RIDE #3: FERRIS WHEEL

  I trip as I’m climbing into the Ferris Wheel cart, but nobody notices. My left foot catches between the brushed aluminum floorboards, but nobody sees. I complain that I’m stuck but nobody responds. Each cart bumps me in the head as it passes, but no one pays heed. The carny pushes the accelerator and smiles.

  GRAPEFRUIT SPOON

  It’s such an evil device, this grapefruit spoon. Half-knife, half-scoop, it slides between my lips as easily as a fresh cut Ruby Red. I probe around the scalloped edges with my tongue and slurp it right off the spoon in the process. It’s hard to distinguish between pink fruit and red muscle—both taste bitter.

  THE RACK

  I always wondered if the arms or the legs would give out first if I ever found myself stretched on The Rack.

  I’d have bet on the arms.

  But it’s a draw: one leg pops from my pelvis in sync with my left arm. The torturer stretches me into a disco pose, awaiting the tie-breaker.

  A THOUSAND CUTS

  Wait, Mr. Executioner! The State specifically sentenced me to lingchi. Death by a thousand cuts. That’s one thousand. By my count you’re at 999. Only one remains! You haven’t touched my genitals yet, and I thank you for creatively avoiding them, but with these scars I’ll never date again, so, balls away! Not—my—throat!

  FAST FOOD

  “Let me read your order back to you: One Happy Time Meal, with double meat, shredded lettuce, Zika skeeter proboscises, onions, rusty staples, poisoned rat droppings, fried peyote, pickled private parts, extra scab, phlegm, and gun barrel-fried bacon on a demon seed bun dusted with cremated clown ash. Is that correct?”

  Almost. Hold the gun.

  AMUSEMENT PARK RIDE #4: CAROUSEL

  I am strung up to the rafters of the carousel ride. All the shiny king’s horses eyeball me with porcelain glares, some raising hooves like they want to ask a question. But I know they’re actually rearing to kick me as the carousel starts to spin, taking the stool out from underfoot in the process.

  PINOCCHIOTOMY

  The EMT says he has to perform an emergency Pinocchiotomy. He pulls out a long pair of iron pincers—medieval-looking, like something out of the Black Forest.

  “Hold on! What is that?”

  “Bone extractor,” he says. “Your skeleton is all wood, right?”

  “Of course not!”

  He eyeballs my face. “Liar!”

  He starts with the nose.

  ALIEN PROBE

  I writhe naked as they lift my legs with pincers. A telescoping robotic prod moves into position, like some insanely large rectal thermometer. It spits out a squirmy bit—a twitching green stalk with an eye. I hesitate, but let go, shitting in its face—releasing the fusion grenade I’ve snuck into the alien nest.

  PA
PERWORK

  The boss told me to digitize our insurance company archives. I gave him my middle digit instead. I could burn all that garbage, none the wiser.

  I scanned enough to keep up appearances, then struck a match. Flames spread. Heat rose as I cackled. Then the scanner exploded in a fireball of glass and shrapnel.

  KNIVES

  I confessed I never liked her cooking. So for dinner my wife serves up revenge. It is cold. And metallic.

  She uses the fancy silverware to dish it out. Surgical slices and painful pricks.

  For her final course: I swallow a dessert made of magnets and she tosses blades over her shoulder, like wedding bouquets.

  AMUSEMENT PARK RIDE #5: THE VORTEX

  The Vortex spins so fast they drop the floor and everyone is held against the cylindrical wall by centrifugal force and we laugh at each other defying gravity until the machine gun turrets drop in the center of the room, spinning and shooting and the ride doesn’t stop until the blood rises to our feet.

  MORPHSUIT

  It’s tight, but I love how unrecognizable I become in my gold morphsuit. The fabric clings to my flesh, but you don’t even know what color I am inside. When I remove my costume it sticks and peels my skin right off with it, and though the pain is unbearable, I grin, finally, permanently, unrecognizable.