Hinkson’s tired, dog tired, but he can’t fall asleep. Can’t let himself drift off into the warm, comforting womb of his unconscious. It’s seven minutes to midnight and the brothers will be here at the witching hour, for sure. Same as last night and the previous night.
Continue reading Seven Minutes To Midnight By Paul D. Brazill
Billy came back this morning. Came in through the back door and put a fillet knife between Bobby’s ribs and right through his lung like you kill a pig. He was washing dishes at the sink after breakfast. I found him on the floor. Lorell was sitting at the table the whole time. Her belly was fat cause she thought she was pregnant – nine months along, she said. Wasn’t nothing in there but crazy. She’d more likely Continue reading There Was No One There By Marc E. Fitch
*interview by The Dictator*
Continue reading Paranoia and the Destiny Programme – An interview with Richard Godwin
Tyler Fitzgerald threw himself down at the bar, sweating profusely. “Gimme a whisky.” Seeing the bartender’s scowl he added, “please.”
Leaves crunch under your boots. The air you breathe is harsh and crisp, it stings like a knife in your chest. You cough into your glove. Pull your jacket closer. Birdcalls and squirrel chatter tell you it’s morning. Not that it matters. You’ve been in the dark for years now.
I check my watch, 2:45 pm. I pop two more capsules of Adderall, and a half dropper of liquid psilocybin. It’s an old Special Forces trick I use for long term focus. The kind of focus needed to sit thirty-six hours staring through a scope. The kind of focus needed to kill a man.
PULP METAL MAGAZINE 