Even the Devil Needs a Friend

Will Bernardara Jr.

ALL WIZARDS HAVE BAD TEETH

Magic practitioners, be they sorcerers or wizards or rogue mages, are of the belief that magic and the arcane systems are spiritually linked to the unmanacled imaginations of children. And so spellcraft is fueled by silly toddler things, like candy and sugar. Sure, they suck lollipops and gobble gummi sharks all the time, going about with their pointy magician hats and symbol-etched staffs, but three or four times a day they dump bags of raw sugar down their gullets – those 25 lbs. bags – and this toxic influx of granular sweet-landslide is what would truly charge the wizards’ most existence-fucking, cracked-out spelljack maelstrom. One plus is due to their need to power thaumaturgy through junk food and frosting a’ la a pixie’s sex organs and anise squares, you can spot a magic-user right away – rotten teeth, blackened to wretched caverns of crumbled nubs. And due to their nearly all-sugar diet, warlocks and witches are out of their fucking minds. They rarely sleep, hallucinate, suffer nervous breakdowns, and of course end up with the worst diabetes imaginable and have to lose limbs. Lot of wizards in wheelchairs. But even disabled, they’re unpredictable, sweet-zing-sparked Rasputins. A sorcerer is just as likely to cast a spell as he is to tie a bunch of children together and turn them into a screamingly cute bonfire. They’re bat-shit, magic-users are. Too many incantations and gory rites – being close to that is the same as being close to bad radiation. So their heads are all frazzled and worm-ridden from spell detritus. Occult pollutants, is the technical term. Just the practices and test runs from these magic-users is a fucking National Lampoon’s Asshole Go Fuck Yourself. There’s spell pollution everywhere now from these cloaked cocksuckers. You hear me?! I SAID SPELL POLLUTION. SPELL. POLLUTION. I see them everywhere too. Long beards and purple robes with gold moons and stars on them and those pointy wizard hats walking around the Walmart parking lot just fucking spells up left and right like a retarded Houdini and polluting the whole area without a care in the world. There are parts where the physics are fucked up and gravity has a mind of its own. The military’s fucking clueless. All that spell residue that floats up into the atmosphere or into the dirt or into the water supply? It’s a fucking no-win. A never-win. It is bad fucking news like worse than a CHUD invasion. For the love of fuck.

YOUNG PEOPLE HAVE NO HEART

A Preacher on the east side of Detroit, a man by all-accounts upstanding and as kind as anyone, eighty-eight years old, was attacked in his regular church’s parking lot by a young berserker in a ski mask with a hatchet. And this blade of the young fells the worn structure of the preacher in just a couple whacks. They said the kid had been modded at some abandoned factory, CRISPed, his forearms were as strong as a tiger’s and he had tendons of a cheetah grafted onto his human musculature. A dangerous hybrid hooligan; there were a lot of them around. Some were cool. Not to cops, but, who the fuck cares about cops?

        In a statement to WZYX-TV the daughter of the slain preacher – who, by the way, had been hacked a total of 782 times and had his spinal column completely torn out – had this to say to the press and their phallic field of microphones:

        “Detroit will never change, because it is the colon of Azazel. The young people here, in the city, they have no heart. They roam around with bricks hoping to find an old man to crush his teeth and jaw with it. No heart. For kicks. FOR. KICKS. They have nothing inside of them except a horny compulsion to pitchfork people or poke their genitals with exposed wires. Nothing. You are arraigning a fucking animal really, is what you’re doing. Hiding a monster in your penal closet. To eat HoneyBunz and watch Keeping Up with the Accelerationist Movement. Prison is a laugh.

        Not the cubes.

        The suffering cubes aren’t in use yet.

        They will be.

        “The youth today, they will kill you, they’ll kill a child; hell, they’d even kill God if they could.”

[The principles in this last were all abducted by a theater troupe of insufferable werewolf performance artists from Romania. After that their lives degraded into nothing but song, dance, and fatal mutilations.]

HARDBODY HARRISON

If this is all about pushing your hardcore exploitative screenplay you FUCKING SCUMBAG DEGENERATE GOOFBALL FUCKTARD IDIOT LA WAITER then let’s dally on to something else altogether. Or, well, whenever I’m maybe ready to stick my fucking dick into that blender of an idea. You Oedipal creep.

Edible creep? OEDIPAL! OEDPIAL! Eat my sex organs and praise whatever deities you’ve manifested through your incessant belief in utter nonsense.

OH, A HUMAN CAN BECOME A PUDDLE OF GOO

I was working in fucking Australia man like never been and I just got the fuck out of the U.S. because I had a biker gang wanting to make me into like separate sections and disperse me in the river. Anyway, I went to prison for fraud when I was a kid, learned to box and lift; I’ve been a weight freak ever since. I wanted to fuck Mickey Rourke one time so hard because I’d injected a moose adrenaline syrup into my cock. Fuck Rourke on Venice Beach, in the shower? Can you imagine? Right, so, I get to Australia and I hang out at gyms, GNC stores – wherever a fucking meathead might be. I learn the circuit, the underbelly, and so I crash at this pad with this little renegade anarchy press called Dangerous Truth. They had no backing, nothing, just some punks with mohawks and hacker sluts. I volunteered straightaway as a field journalist who’d be in the scene and a guinea pig for any and all drugs. I’d report the results of the new weight loss compound or the fucking hell I don’t know the anabolic whatevers. I fell out from GHB once – I took two or five caps of it; I don’t remember now – and cracked my entire fucking face. Right into the goosedroppin’ pavement! Muscles went to jelly; couldn’t brace myself. But then when they started to inject my arms and biceps with this hideous yellow and brown serum that’s when my skin began to turn to the texture of pudding and melt off and this one girl Vanessa was even worse because they injected her cheeks – her face – with this aqua green chemical and her face turned into a giant blue balloon like the size of a big beanbag chair and then exploded and green muck and shit was everywhere. That muck and its smell caused everybody to have nerve-flaying nightmares – horrible, horrible.

                After that shit, this is an intermission:

LET US PRAY.

ERNEST L. NORMAN, YOU ARE A GOD AMONG GODS, A SWEET LITTLE PRINCE AMONG SWEET PRINCEES. YOU ARE THE ONLY INTERDIMENSIONAL PROPHET ANYONE GIVES ONE LIMP FUCK ABOUT. YOU’RE A SPACE PIMP.

        PRAISE BE TO ERNEST L. NORMAN – THE FORGOTTEN NEW POP VENDING MACHINE PROPHET OF STAR SHAPES IN BAD ART ON LAMINATED HARDCOVERS AND NOW GIVE YOUR FUCKING VEINS TO HIM… GO TO THE MYSTERY FUN HOUSE IN ORLANDO, MY CHILD… NO…NO NOT MY CHILD… I’VE EATEN ALL MY CHILDREN… ALL THE DADDIES HERE ARE MURDERERS OF CHILDREN. YES, RUN. RUN NOW. GOOD BOY. SMART BOY. FAST BOY. IF I CATCH YOU YOU’LL COME APART.

HARDBODY HARRISON – REVISITED [IN COOPERATION WITH

MERCHANT IV/OR/Y PRODUCTIONS]

It’s the Gulf War. This is entirely nonfiction by the way. This part of this, anyway. This chapter. So there is Harry Norris, soldier, crawling through and into barbed wire like he wants his flesh to conjoin with its adamantine stability and razor spiral, which just looks like falling down into a beautiful death by orange, rusty vices – probably ones from the last rape crusade, or at least the last documented one they said wasn’t deepfaked.

        Now after the war Harry knew the one way to make money, the best way, was to go around the streets acting like an 8-bit video-game character like from Double Dragon or River City Ransom. He walks around, aggressive, pushy, a jean jacket with the sleeves cut off, a fuckin’ pink headband.

        He makes money on the side by participating in gladiatorial events held in junkyards by nefarious Syrians. They beat each other with car doors whose edges have been sharpened to double as edge weapons. It’s a bloody gig and the cries and screams of the people getting wobbly appendages almost sliced clean off is a hell soundtrack of shriekmagnitude.

        In a few years Harry owned a Toughman Contest fought behind a Church’s Chicken, and the neighborhood beat-‘em-up crews started calling Harry HARDBODY HARRISON. A lot of people cheered this name but some whispered it because it was like some kind of cursed word, some kind of wrestling mysticism.

        Then shit went all WTF when Harrison began plucking women from detox facilities and rehabs and tutoring them in the art of sucking cock and taking dick in the butthole and making a living at it DRUG-FREE. The drug-free was of course horseshit as Harry slit gills into these girls’ arms and fed the suckling arm-slits the needle and the fentanyl. Then people would come over, just randoms invited off Craigslist, no one turned away, and they all gangbanged the girl, the STDs mingling like a meeting of fuck-organ hell-bytes.

        After awhile, Harrison got the law to go do something like eat donuts or shoot black people in the back. He had a new purpose now, a new revelation, given to him by no one but Christ who’d merged Fly-like with Jake “The Snake” Roberts.

        He transformed his brothel into a women’s wrestling carnival. He bought a big farm for training the ladies. He dressed all those girls up as clowns and put paint on their faces and they got in the ring and these fuckers wrestled and wrestled with such metaphysical oneness that the watching Feds and FBI and CIA and NSA were simply in awe, and each one of them cried like little rugrat babies – almost torturously, as if the baby rugrats’ feet were being burned by a hateful maneuver by Ra www.ri-a ri-ia

NOTHING EVER ENDS

IF YOU THINK SO

YOU’RE MORE OPTIMISTIC

THAN I’LL EVER

BE

stuprum

                                                quod

solis

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@BernardaraJr