DEADLY FORCE, BOTFLIES and PRISON SEX.

•February 24, 2015 • Leave a Comment

 Let’ start with a nice review:

 CAT LOVER February 15, 2015 By Cat lover Format:Kindle Edition|Verified Purchase

“One of the best books I’ve read in a very long time. If you want to read a book in one day, grab this one and be prepared for a sore back from the long time it takes to finish this book. As soon as I can get to a Wi-Fi, I will order more by this author.”
'click' on book cover image to get PHARMACIDE in Kindle and Print!

‘click’ on book cover image to get PHARMACIDE in Kindle and Print!

   Six-point-Three

Inside, the complex of the Phoenix Tent City was made up of the abandoned department stores that used to anchor the once thriving Park Central shopping mall. The inmates and their dependents used these huge emptied structures to erect their individual dwellings.
Tent City was reminiscent of African or Haitian shanty towns but only indoors. These dwellings were constructed with whatever materials could be gathered and thrown together. There were no fires, cooking, or smoking allowed inside the mall buildings of any kind. Other than those fire-code restrictions (because the fire dept. would not respond) it was pretty much a free-for-all.
Electricity and running water were provided for Tent City by the city of Phoenix. The juice as it was called by the inmates was controlled by the Peacekeepers from inside their full-sized station. Because of this control riots by the inmates were extremely rare. If one was in the offing, all the Peacekeepers had to do to exert their authority is to shut off the juice. They would do this for even the slightest infractions. The inmates did not want that. They all got very used to having the juice.
The Peacekeepers station was manned around the clock. It sat right up against the high wall where the outer parking lot of the mall used to be. The station was as far away from the stench and mayhem of the main buildings as it could possibly be and still be on the grounds of the City.
Nutrition for the inmates was provided for once a day, delivered via big-bellied helicopters. The great gray machines would hover to within a few feet of the asphalt. The doors would open and the food would be dumped out. It was simple fare such as pre-packaged sandwiches, burritos, corn dogs, pudding, gelatin, breakfast bars, toaster-pastries. Pretty much anything that was slow to rot.
The Peacekeepers used to stand by during the food drops, but it was far too dangerous now. They used to sit outside their station, not to preserve order, but for their amusement. It was entertaining for them to see inmates beating the crap out of each other for stale bags of chips and greasy beef sticks.
It all changed in one day a while back. A teenager made the horrible decision to rush the helicopter as soon as the drop began. A mob of hungry inmates joined the pursuit as they too rushed the helicopter. The big machine veered out of control, its blades tilting toward the asphalt of the parking lot. As it struck the hungry horde, the shimmering blades sliced cleanly through a few dozen bodies before barely managing to level off and escape.
The carnage left behind on the ground was grotesque. Some of the bigger body parts were still spurting hot arcs of arterial red. That stopped no one.
for other titles by SSN aka The Grim Rev. Steve Rage

for other titles by SSN aka The Grim Rev. Steve Rage

Without missing nary a beat, the hungry inmates searched the immediate area for food. The helicopter had departed and the drop was terminated. The brave crowd turned to a raging mob. When the few bits of packaged food that made it off the helicopter were consumed, that’s when shit turned real ugly.
Inmates over-turned the still bleeding body parts. When no more food could be had, they turned opportunistic. They fought over the warm body parts, even the bloody strands of clothing. Their faces were crimson and their eyes were mad. Those that were trampled were turned on as well. Shivs of all types came from all points. They cut into the flesh of both the quick and the dead.
The feeding frenzy was finally halted when the Peacekeepers fired a .50 cal tri-mounted rifle into the crowd.
When the riot was over, the dead were everywhere. Most of the fallen had been chewed on, the diners slipping back inside with their prizes of rent flesh. Some of the bones were picked completely clean. The Peacekeepers were stunned and taken aback by the sheer ferocity of the hungry inmates. That’s when the cops were approached by the Peoples Defense League.
The PDL was a well organized crew within the walls of Tent City. They masqueraded as a voice for the illegals. In truth, the PDL was a ruthless bunch of criminals who were in constant pursuit of Notes and power. They shared muscle with El Oso’s LCM, one of the oldest street gangs in Phoenix. Their combined membership was imposing, both in raw numbers as well as the ruthlessness of the rank and file. Members of both the PDL and LCM were jumped-in for life. They were hardcore, loyal to a fault, and armed to the teeth.
The Tent City inmates feared the PDL, almost as much as they feared the Peacekeepers themselves. Together, with their street-gang LCM ties from outside, the cops and the thugs from the PDL were unstoppable.
The PDL was strong enough to put up a good fight against the Peacekeepers, but that would never happen. It wouldn’t be cost-effective.
Following the helicopter incident, the cops and the PDL came together. At the well-guarded pow-wow, the two groups formed a mutually beneficial arrangement concerning the food drops. The PDL would peaceably gather together the daily drop of food. Then it would handle the distribution to the inmates for a price. The PDL split the proceeds of this venture with the Tent City Peacekeeping force.
The food distribution scheme worked out so well for the PDL. Their leadership approached the cops about other valuables such as day-passes, bus passes, food coupons and even the very rare and expensive medical vouchers. The Peacekeepers hated the housekeeping end of their jobs, so the PDL taking those burdens off the cops’ hands was just what the doctor ordered.
The cops still maintained control of the illicit transactions. The gambling, dope, moonshine stills, prostitution and baby and organ trafficking remained under the Peacekeeper’s thumb. That’s still where the real Notes lay.
The Peacekeepers kicked a little back to the PDL. The gang preferred their weekly allowance from the Peacekeepers to be in the form of drink, drugs and access to sex. It was a strong system that worked smoothly with nary a hitch. The ones that suffered the most were the inmates and especially the young ones. However, it still ran well because hungry children make marvelous prostitutes and drug mules.
The cops kept certain areas of the old mall completely off-limits to inmates. That’s were the legal citizens from the outside came to indulge in their red-light district-type desires.
Any drug you can name and a few that you can’t are available. Mules move narcotics in and out. Vicious looking home-made weapons are stock-piled and guarded night and day. There is even a full nursery and play room set-up for customers.
KidzPlay is by appointment only of course.
It’s been said that one could get whatever is desired inside Tent City. From a knob job to a newborn baby with eyes to match yours, you can get whatever your wretched little heart desires.
As with everything else, you must be able to pay.
Six–point-Four
Sara finally made it to the front of the line waiting to gain entrance. She walked toward the open gate on the east wall of Tent City. The fruits of her robbery and her mother’s medicine were hidden as deep and well as any young girl possible could.
The duty officer was leaning against the wall. He was talking with one of the PDL thugs and smoking a salad bowl. The pungent odor of the Mexican pot and the Afghani desert hash hung to those two clowns like an aura of bad tidings.
The cop eyed her as she approached. He noted, “Been to the library again, young tongue?” The PDL thug chuckled as he reached for the ceramic pipe.
Sara ignored the both of them, as per her mother’s wishes. She’d been told, time and time again, that talking back to them would only lead to trouble. And trouble, she knew only too well, they can do without.
“She’s growing up good,” she heard the cop remark as she was cleared for re-entry back into the land of the lost.
“Yes, sir,” replied the thug from the PDL, “Put a couple more years on her and she’ll be ready to gobble tricks like no one’s business.”
Sara began walking faster now, trying to get away from their voices.
“Why wait, that tight little ass will command a premium,” was the last thing she heard them say.
“Just you try it,” she whispered to herself. She turned a corner and their foul words were drowned out by the inmates. She was home.
Oh, goody, goody gum-fucking-drops…
Sara used a well worn mental path through the City to her mother’s tatty camping tent. She began by going through the wide entrance to her building. The former store still had the smudged faint outlines of Robinson’s-May above it. The smell assaulted her. Sara instinctively began breathing through her mouth.
Inmates were everywhere. Kids and dogs and even a few feral cats were running wild. The adults were scattered about in various stages of inebriation. Sara had to negotiate clumps of trash (some still moving) and around a seven year old child. She was dragging her legless stumps along the cold floor.
“Outta my way, muthafuck,” she said to Sara who gladly obliged.
Sara turned to watch the child dragging her stumps. Her duct-taped palms were slapping the cement floor.
Sara almost fell over a crazy, toothless man who was desperately trying to holler at a rigid store mannequin. He was drooling, foul smelling and trying to convince the mannequin that she should date him by counting off his attributes. There weren’t many, so it didn’t take long. Sara had the misfortune to witness the old coot mounting the mannequin.
All kinds of love in the City…
Sara found the escalator. She rode it unmolested to the second floor. Their dwelling was located in an area that was reserved for the sick.
Their home was little more than a camping tent attached to a thin scrap wood frame. Cardboard boxes made the walls and being indoors, there was no need for a roof besides a sheet. And that was to keep the flying feces from hitting you while sleeping.
Inside the ten by ten foot structure was everything Sara and her mother owned in this world. It wasn’t much. It consisted of a couple changes of clothes, two smelly sleeping bags, a tiny brown and white Chihuahua named ‘Beto’ and a few paperbacks books from the library.
Even with so little in the way of worldly possessions, either Sara’s mother or herself had to be in the shack at all times. Or else their very little would become someone else’s very little.
Sara came to the dirty sheet they used as a door. She saw Beto poking its nose through the bottom corner of the door. The tiny dog sniffed the air carefully. When he caught the scent of his master, he went through the sheet and sat at Sara’s feet. Beto was facing the wrong way.
“Hiya, Beto,” Sara said. The sound of his master’s voice allowed him to turn and face her. The dog put up one paw and with his head tilted slightly back he shivered with excitement. Beto looked like a cicada attempting to mate with a porch light. Then the little dog peed on itself. “Aw, poor Beto,” Sara said and picked up her little blind dog. She lovingly scratched his head and spoke to him, “Momma’s home now little one. Momma loves you, yes I do.”
Six-point-Five

Sara had found Beto when the blind dog was trying to cross a busy street. He heard the cars passing on either side of him and became confused. So, he put a tiny paw up to protect himself and peed.
Sara was ten years old when she saw the pitiful creature sitting in the middle of the street. She dodged the traffic to get to him. The cars honked their horns at her. She responded with vigorous one finger salutes at rear windows.
She let the small animal sniff her, before attempting to pick it up. The dog’s eyes on quick inspection looked so weird, but she was standing in the middle of a busy street. She needed to get out of harm’s way.
People in Phoenix can’t drive for shit!
Sara left the surface street and found a small, shady park nearby. They sat and rested at an empty picnic bench. Sara placed the dog on the table. She eyed it carefully. The dog sat fearfully, but it didn’t snap at her. Sara looked at the dog’s face. It was shaking from fear, but Sara’s used a soft, calming voice to reassure him.
The dog had its eyelids pushed all the way back into the ocular cavity. The dog’s eyes were huge, bulbous and poking out. The eyes had tiny holes instead of pupils. They opened and closed, looking every bit like they were smacking kisses at Sara.
Sara noticed how the dog’s huge eyes had tiny black spines when she peered in for an even closer inspection. They also moved independently of each while quivering about. When Sara reached out with a tentative touch, the dog’s crazy eye burrowed deeper into the socket. The little dog yelped with pain as the eye dug in, heading for the brain it seemed.
The pupil winked at Sara rapidly and brownish yellow pus oozed out around the eye and down the dog’s shivering face. Still he didn’t bite, but Sara got goose bumps all over her body.
Shit, I know what this is. It was in a journal at the library. Oh, God, this is so gross…
Sara removed a bit of cloth and a pair of tweezers from her backpack. The little dog had mature botfly larvae wedged in its ocular cavity, instead of eyeballs. Poor little dude. They had to come out.
Talking continuously to the little dog, Sara got a firm grip on the larvae’s kissing hole. Keeping the black spikes in mind, Sara pulled the little monster slowly out. The tweezers slipped briefly. The larvae tunneled fast, trying to tuck up its tail, but Sara grasped the alien beastie before it could disappear inside.
Centimeter by centimeter Sara pulled on the botfly, fighting against the brave little dog’s fear and pain and Sara’s own repulsion. The fattest part of the parasite larvae was deep inside, the black spikes digging in for purchase.
With a grunt, Sara pulled the botfly larvae all the way out. There was an explosion of pus, blood and the digested dog eye the botfly had been feeding on. The ocular cavity kept leaking foul-smelling infectious fluid, while Sara put the botfly on the table. It cringed at the bright light. The botfly spread its brand new wings to dry the gunk, preparing for departure. Sara trapped it. The extracted botfly was both longer and thicker than her thumb…. (end excerpt).

sunset_over_church_steeple‘click’ on MbS image above for more fearless, peerless fiction :)

  • ***ATTN: Sick Freaks and Fans of Rage***…For the love of all that’s unholy, PLEASE ‘SHARE’ my dark shit with all your friends and enemies.

The Mercenaries of Havenshaw Crypt by D.G. Sutter

•February 20, 2015 • Leave a Comment
For Kindle Version

For ‘MERCS’

Jonathan Moon: “D.G. Sutter takes you into a sticky dark world inhabited with wonderfully weird characters in The Mercenaries of Havenshaw Crypt. Get ready for wicked action and quick wit when you wander through Mr. Sutter’s imagination.”

Jordan Krall: “D.G. Sutter is a Satanic Tolkien, spinning an entertaining story in an infernal world of grotesqueries and humor.”

“FOR SO LONG as anyone could remember, The Flagrant Five have ruled the land with an aggressive hand—enslaving children, destroying the wilderness—but Father Necrocious is tired of it all. One of his worst enemies (and a member of the Flagrant Five), Manservant Genesis, has escaped his imprisonment as a shadow.Therefore, he’s enlisted the help of a ragtag group of fabricated Mercenaries to turn the fascists to shadows. The annual Dictators’ Ball is pending (a battle in which children are used as pawns to determine the fate of the free world), and the brothers plan to stop the gala before it can commence. As they weave their way through the cartoonish landscape they will fight with their options to either trap the Flagrant Five with their shadow guns, or disobey their creator’s orders and finally kill the Five for good.”

'CLICK' for 'MERCS' on AMAZON.COM!! Print & Kindle...

‘CLICK’ for ‘MERCS’ on AMAZON.COM!! Print & Kindle…

Secreting the finest in DARK HORROR, EXTREME FICTION, URBAN, BIZARRO, TORTUREPORN, BRUTAL BIBLE TALES, SPLATTERPUNK, and BLACK METAL INSPIRED DARK FANTASY!

burnbooks1

“ART IS DANGEROUS. It left me feeling slightly violated, and really wanting cookies.”

•February 20, 2015 • Leave a Comment

 Art is Dangerous By Dona Fox

“I thought the easiest way to write this review might be to compare it to other books that it reminds me of, other books that astounded me as this one did. Indeed, as I read Doctor Flesh several other works or authors came briefly to mind: Robert Shea/Robert Anton Wilson, Aldous Huxley, Mad Magazine, The Stepford Wives gone horribly wrong, Frankenstein of course, in one spot a whiff of Hunter S. Thompson, then a bit of Dr. Strangelove, and Juliette. Then it was almost as if I was watching a Saturday Night Live skit right before all of those images were thrown in a literary blender and none of those flashes were part of the narrative at all. What came out of the blender was pure Alex S. Johnson — the hippest book for all of “the smartest kids in the room.”
Doctor Flesh: Director’s Cut is written in layers. It is dense with inside jokes from previous works, popular culture, and tons of intellectual references. The genius of Johnson’s writing is such that even if you don’t realize those layers are there, you’ll still have a rollicking good read. So, I’m saying don’t get me wrong, yes, it’s naughty—but it’s so much more than that.
I loved the inventions of Dream Liquid through which you could manipulate the outcome of movies and free form DNA through which actual bodies could be manipulated. The theme of manipulation came up again in Johnson’s commentary on the transformation of our society from flesh and blood, sperm and spew reality to a place where all is focused on what you choose to see and manipulate on your myriad sized pod, pad or computer screens.
Oh, yes, he nudged me beyond my comfort zone several times—and right over it at least once. Art is dangerous.”

dr.fleshback-3‘click’ on image for some Kindle Flesh!

From Alex S. Johnson, the author of Bad Sunset, Wicked Candy and The Death Jazz, comes a new vision in Bizarro horror. Imagine a TROMA film on meth and acid, one part cyberpunk, one part Franz Kafka, and three parts frankly unsuitable for a sane audience. “Will make you feel as if you’ve just eaten 8 Percocets and washed ‘em down with a bottle of moonshine,” says Necro Stein of Texas Terror Entertainment.

‘click’ for some FLESH!

… awfully amazing) piece of bizarro terror-smut that I only recommend for my most depraved friends By R.E. Davis

“It’s an amazingly awful (and awfully amazing) piece of bizarro terror-smut that I only recommend for my most depraved friends. It left me feeling slightly violated, and really wanting cookies. Also, having an acknowledgment in it (for assistance with “format f#%ery”) pretty much assures that I can never run for public office again. I’ve never been happier.”

Tales of Depravity and Wickedness Authored by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

•January 17, 2015 • Leave a Comment
FACEBOOK PAGE

FACEBOOK PAGE

Tales of Depravity and Wickedness Authored by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

Short stories from the Most Depraved Writer in Print. Dark and twisted tales of exquisite violence, rough tricks, narcotics consumption, evil ghosts and drug-snuffling demons. Evil grandfathers and animal-human hybrid clones. Morbid serial killer stalking night darkened hallways of an unsuspecting hospital. Life underground following the frozen apocalypse. Tales of ancient blood-thirsty vampires and Roman decadence. Enjoy all of the hardcore, dystopic, viscerally violent stories. Not for easily offended mamby-pambies. These ‘Tales of Depravity and Wickedness’ will change your viewpoint on everything. Dark fiction at its finest

click image to follow the nice Grim Reverend behind the boathouse.

click image to follow the nice Grim Reverend behind the boathouse.

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One of those ‘real life’ sex dolls …

•January 14, 2015 • Leave a Comment
Brian tried to remember how all this started as he drove into the torrential night; it almost hurt his head trying to recall the events leading to this moment in time.
Maybe it had started when he was at university.
He had a girlfriend in his final year that had gotten him into some weird stuff sexually then she left him for a guy with a bigger cock. The other guy was some gay looking chump with muscles and a tattoo; the pair had died in a car accident and Brian took a dump on their graves after each of their funerals.
Fuck the both of them.
But after she had left him he needed to fill the void of the newfound enjoyment of sickening sexual practices.
Brain had purchased one of those ‘real life’ sex dolls online from a Japanese company; the company had some kooky name like ‘FUKARADA’ or something. Crazy Japanese bastards, they really led the way in the perverse.
Boy did the thing look real; you could bend it into any position and it came armed with enormous tits, willing mouth and a supposedly real feel pussy and anus. The packaging said to ‘just add lubricant’ but there was a problem. There was something missing; the smells, the tastes and the feel of real skin.
You can’t emulate that.
So Brian set out to attempt to build a real life sex toy made from real life people.
Brian has been a naughty boy. 'CLICK' to see how (Kindle & Print)

Brian has been a naughty boy. ‘CLICK’ to see how (Kindle & Print)

AND FOR MORE WICKEDNESS:

newback2AD

HOLY SHITBALLS! HERE’S SOME MORE DARK FANTASY FICTION!

“YOU MORBID WESTPHAL”

by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

~ Born whole from the rectum of a dying patient, Morbid silently stalks the hospital’s hallways, heinously dispatching the most helpless of patients and in the most painfully repulsive of manners. ~
In the meantime, in order to pay for his family and home that includes his ghost step-father Sammy and his pet aborted fetus Chip, Westphal has to ingest mounds of dangerous narcotics to get through his night shifts. Barely hanging on to his Care Tech gig by his fingernails, the last thing Westphal needs is to be accused of Morbid’s evil deeds. You, on the other hand, simply want to find some solace. Terminally ill from a virulent infection, and dependent on Life Support, all You beg for a peaceful and dignified demise. Shirk has other plans for You. The ancient drug-snuffling demon makes You relive all of your deadly and venial sins as he tortures You. Night after night. Until eternal Damnation comes calling.

click to get!

click to get!

ANNNNND ….

~Pontius Pilate is cursed to be a vampire. Life after life after life.~ And for the Plata dealing Pilate, his life is more like a death sentence. His only chance surviving is to keep on selling his monthly quota of Plata. This new man-made narcotic is a potent speed-ball designed to amp up the user, while also numbing the conscience into euphoric oblivion. To nullify the pain. To stifle the torture. To run and to hid from all the anguish inside. PILATE is a drug lord vampire in this re-telling of Christ’s final days. When given yet another chance to save the Earth’s latest Christ, will the re-incarnated Pilate choose to protect Her? Or to save his drug business, his money and his friends, will the modern day Pilate instead choose to wash his hands of the whole ordeal? Pilate shall have to allow the torture and death of a Holy Person in order to save his very own life. ” For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” This is a truly Brutal Bible Tale. A dismal post-industrial future. A look at man defiled and in decline. Evil has arrived and Dominion has been taken by the damned, the demons, vampires, vicious ghosts and strange halflings. The cast-aside by-products of all the debauched rampages and scientific sins against nature. Sex, drugs, and broken souls are the only trade commodities left.

Pilate in Print!

Pilate in Print!

Even more Kindle Darkness...

Even more Kindle Darkness…

 

Fun Publishing Shit I Get To Do!

•January 8, 2015 • Leave a Comment

In the first 18 months of MorbidbookS existence we ganered 18 awesome books by 15 brilliant and deranged writers. For an admittedly teensy-tiny micro-press with (clearly) no idea what they are doing, that-there is a pretty decent accomplishment. So, in the spirit of “where I may lack in looks, I make up for in flexibility and a willingness to experiment”, acquiitions of new manus will be put on hold for some months to better re-aquaint MorbidbookS readers with these original authors and their books. Why? Simple. They were the first brave enough to go with The Grim Reverend and Steven Nelson, therefore they deserve the extra attention! :)

As the blog title indictes, this was one of those chores that I had no idea I would have so much fun with: Cover Design. Now some writers come in with their own cover that they had created themselves. Some have a cover they want done by a specific artist. Some have no idea and could not give 2 hairy shits about. And then there’s the author who KINDA knows what he/she wants….. sort of.

Enter Mr. Chris Kelso! In his novel: “TRANSMATIC”, he originally wanted some engine/computer/somthn-somethn schematics. I went trolling thru istock, public domain, etc. looking for an image that would look good wrapped around by a template…..

650px-Car_lightsc6_000

etc… But sadly no. Nothing looked right. Then I recaled that the hitman protag in “TRANSMATIC” did said hits mostly to quire a Nova Super-Sport. After searching for literally hours, I finaly stumbled upon some raw public domain gold in the form of a nearly 50 year old advertisement:

YCD7_012

Which then, thru many, many a go at it …

nova-ad

Kelso and The Rev fixed on this:

'click' image to follow the hit-man to the 'other' side of reality.

‘click’ image to follow the hit-man to the ‘other’ side of reality.

In the end it is the wonderful small details that give satisfaction to cover design. Such as author’s name in grill, ‘hit-man’ vanity plate, quote from one of the author’s favorite writers and gettn the grill’s red as close to the title color as possible, all the while attempting to hold on to the same level surreal as the story itself.

Do enjoy Chris Kelso’s amazing “TRANSMATIC”!

BLURB:

“…part-time hitman/ exterminator, Ignius Ellis’s dream is to buy a candy-apple red Nova Supreme. In the process of trying to earn enough cash to make his dream come true he gets sucked into the rough world of Visitacion Valley, SF. When the tenants in his apartment complex reveal their various extracurricular activities this take an even more bizarre twist and Ellis soon becomes acquainted with the nightmarish Slave State dimension…”

For more titles from MorbidbookS:

:) 'click' for evn 'MO MbS titles on Amazon.com :)

:) ‘click’ for evn ‘MO MbS titles on Amazon.com :)

MORBIDBOOKS. EVERYTHING BLEEDS.

“What’s Eating Keegan The Vegan”?

•January 8, 2015 • Leave a Comment
'click' image for your copy today! Sweet!

‘click’ image for your copy today! Sweet!

'click' on image for Dark Kindle Love from MorbidbookS!

‘click’ on image for Dark Kindle Love from MorbidbookS!

 

List Price: $9.95
6″ x 9″ (15.24 x 22.86 cm)
Black & White on Cream paper
196 pages
MorbidbookS
ISBN-13: 978-0692356777 (Custom)
ISBN-10: 0692356770
BISAC: Fiction / Fantasy / Dark Fantasy

Keegan is a late-night public access radio show host, sexual deviant, and militant vegan. He has grown tired of his vegan cause being treated with apathy by the portly, meat-gorging, residents of the small town of Breen Gay, Wisconsin.
The time is ripe for Vegan vengeance.
Keegan harvests roundworms from a local vagrant and mutates them using chemicals stolen from the meat packing plant. He infests the populace with the voracious, parasitic carnivores. Keegan knows that the only way for the people of Breen Gay to eliminate the parasites is to starve them of meat. It is with great expectation that he awaits the oncoming utopia of Veganism.
However, the mutant roundworms will not die easily. The problems for the people of Breen Gay have only just begun.

 

 

 
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