He’s a Lumberjack and he’s okay!
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The Midnight Meat Train
By Clive Barker
Was it really only a season since he stepped out of Port Authority Bus Station and looked up 42nd Street towards the Broadway intersection? So short a time to lose so many treasured illusions.
He was embarrassed now even to think of his naivety. It made him wince to remember how he had stood and announced aloud:
‘New York, I love you.’
Love? Never.
It had been at best an infatuation.
And now, after only three months living with his object of adoration, spending his days and nights in her presence, she had lost her aura of perfection. New York was just a city.
He had seen her wake in the morning like a slut, and pick murdered men from between her teeth, and suicides from the tangles of her hair. He had seen her late at night, her dirty back streets shamelessly courting depravity. He had watched her in the hot afternoon, sluggish and ugly, indifferent to the atrocities that were being committed every hour in her throttled passages.
It was no Palace of Delights.
It bred death, not pleasure.
Michael Peterson AKA Charles Bronson has spent over thirty of his 57 years behind bars, and most of them in solitary confinement as he is widely known as Britain’s most violent inmate. Yet under these circumstances he has managed to build an impressive physique through patience and inventiveness…
Flyer by A Dezign for Death.
Original image from Mirrors (2008)
Bronson (2008)
The Cramps version of “Lonesome town”. So eerie, this really belongs in a horror movie. Would have been perfect for “The Crazies” remake.
Prey
By Steven Stark
Raised voices and increased footfall roused him from slumber. He hadn’t intended to nod off but he’d been there for hours. He shivered, feeling the icy winds that accompanied the rain and penetrated the clothing of all those unfortunate enough to be outside. They would be hurrying along now, a luxury he could not afford.
Huddled under the doorway of a vacant shop, he pulled his coat around him tighter still and watched. The peak of his baseball cap he kept down low and the collar of his jacket, stretched high. He did not want to be seen by anyone or recorded by the CCTV cameras rotating from above.
The disguise was perfect, scruffy, but not so much as to be memorable when upright and in your face, it is then that you would notice a vagrant, but while sat on the ground it was grubby enough for the task. People zipped by in their hundreds regarding him as the homeless filth he posed as, either paying no heed with eyes focused solely on their destination, or purposely avoiding him altogether.
Observing silently, he half envied their simple existences-ignorantly rushing to and from meaningless jobs and social gatherings with insincere friends.
How blind they were.
