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headers already sent by (output started at [ROOT]/includes/functions.php:3815) [phpBB Debug] PHP Warning: in file [ROOT]/includes/functions.php on line 4670: Cannot modify header information - headers already sent by (output started at [ROOT]/includes/functions.php:3815) [phpBB Debug] PHP Warning: in file [ROOT]/includes/functions.php on line 4671: Cannot modify header information - headers already sent by (output started at [ROOT]/includes/functions.php:3815) [phpBB Debug] PHP Warning: in file [ROOT]/includes/functions.php on line 4672: Cannot modify header information - headers already sent by (output started at [ROOT]/includes/functions.php:3815) Horror World • View topic - HEADER 3 EXCERPT
Friends: pasted below (if I don't screw it up!) is a 4k word scene from Header 3, which I hope you all get a kick out of it. I'm off to NYC till Monday. Everyone take care and be well!
Best Edward Lee
* * * * An onlooker who might errantly glance into the Larkin’s Barn would likely see the most macabre event of his or her life: Beezy the meth hooker lying on her back, on a sturdy wooden table, her mouth open, her eyes unblinking as they stared dead into the high ceiling. A brawny hand and wrist blocked her ear and the area of space up to the top of her head; hence, any onlooker would not actually be able to see what was happening in detail; however, the steady PAP PAP PAP-sounds coinciding with the action of a brawny man’s hips bumping the top of Beezy’s head might eventually lead said onlooker to a most ghastly revelation after enough time had passed for the image to sink in. The “brawny man” was Horace Larkin, and he was currently engaged in a most uncommon manner of sexual intercourse. The humping action of his hips buffeting the top of Beezy’s head sped up, and so did the PAP! PAP! PAP! PAP! PAP! PAP! A stout, authoritative voice rose up and said, “Git it, son. Give that noggin a good fuckin’ like the dirty bitch deserve.” This voice, by the way, belonged to one Eamon Martin, the mayor of Luntville. “Yeah, Horace!” piped up Gut Larkin. “You go, guy! Whup her brain ta puddin’!” “Hump it, boy!” Eamon added. “Don’t pussy foot with it--hump it!” “Git yerself a big ole dick goober right up in ‘nare!” “Hump that head, boy!” Eamon cracked. “I say HUMP it!” Horace, in the throes of imminent coital crisis, now gripped the sides of Beezy’s head hard as he could, to effect the most forceful thrust of his erection into her brain matter. His hips sped up, sped up, sped up... Horace’s belly heaved before him as his back arched and his teeth ground. “Aw, shee-it! I’m almost, I say I’m almost there!” Eamon nodded approval from the wedges of shadow in the barn, an approval like, say, that of a father rooting for his son in a little league baseball game. Eamon clapped a few times. “Fill her junkie-whore head up son! Let her know what a real man is.” And Gut added, “Give ‘er yer cock-cream, brother! Some good ole pecker-syrup!”” The moment seemed at hand. Horace stiffened, vibrated in place as his hips pounded onward. “Uh - uh - uh...aw, fuck, I think I’se...yeah boy! Ooo! Yes sir! I’se a comin’! I’se a comin’!” In the “afterglow,” Horace’s 300-plus-pound frame nearly collapsed. The finishing thrusts slowed then stopped, just as did the jolting jiggles of the dead woman’s bare breasts. Eamon and Gut gave some finishing applause to the performance; Horace, with a gushing fat grin, pulled up his overalls. “Way ta go, Horace!” said his brother. “That’s treatin’ a gal the way she wanna be treated!” Eamon added, in his natural deadpan expression, “Yeah, real romantic-like and gentlemanly. Don’t’cha ferget to bring her some roses and a box of chocolates.” Horace and Gut burst out laughing and popped open some beers. Eamon shuffled to the table, pinched the dead girl’s cheeks, looked at her teeth, then gave her breasts a squeeze like a housewife testing melons in the grocery store. All poor Beezy could do now was stare upward, agape-mouthed and cross-eyed. “Yeah, boys, I’d say we done pumped enough cum this ‘un’s head fer one night, huh?” “Yes sir, Mayor!” Gut replayed. “We shore did!” “Won’t be no more drug-selling from her. Kids these days. They know right from wrong, but choose wrong ever time.” The mayor tisked. He grabbed a shank of Beezy’s hair, lifted her head up, and looked with calm curiosity into the three-inch-wide hole at the top of her cranium. “Tarnations, boys. I say this bitch’s brain looks just like the cheesecake Karla Croner sell ever Sunday at the street market.” Horace took a peek. “Aw, yeah, Mayor. The cheese cake with them neat cherry swirls!” “Um-hmm. Looks like it but I don’t reckon it taste like it,” then Eamon released her hair; her head fell back with a clump. Gut and Horace roared more laughter. The barn doors banged open, and in walked Tucker and Clyde, drinking beers and hamming it up. “There they is,” Eamon addressed. “You boys find any more dope dealers out there?” “No sir, we shore didn’t,” Tucker answered. “And it was high’n low we looked.” Clyde, admiring Beezy’s nude corpse, said, “Wish we could find another one looks like this. Umm-mmmmm!” “Hail of a body on this ‘un,” Tucker joined in on the appraisal, “and tits like ta make ya howl at the blammed moon.” Then he squeezed a lifeless breast. “Cain’t really reckon if she got them implants like that blondie splittail last time.” “Didn’t much think on it,” Horace reflected. “A’course, only one way ta find out.” “Yes sir!” Tucker whipped out his buck knife and, with no more deliberation than cutting a butter-slot in a big dinner roll, slid the razor-sharp blade through the left breast’s girth. There was no gush of saline, as was half expected, only a sluggish trickle of darkened blood. “Natrull!” Tucker concluded. Eamon nodded. “She’s still warm. You fellas can go ahead’n take a poke if’n ya like, or’se we got a fresh one over here, still kickin’,” and his hand gestured another table on which lay one very bound, gagged, and shit-scared fellow named Dutch. He squirmed in his bonds. “Aw, yeah,” Tucker recalled. “That swamp scum fucker we’se caught sellin’ the meth ‘hind Crossroads.” “Yeah, boy,” Eamon said. “We wanted ta save him till yawl got back.” Tucker cocked a brow and rubbed his crotch at the speculation. “Well, shee-it, Mayor. I’se had me a fine nut last night but I shore could go fer another.” “Me’s too, Mayor,” Clyde chuckled. “My peter’s riled and fit ta spit, it is.” Horace projected, “But we’se gonna muss him up first, ain’t we, Mayor?” “A’course, boy,” Eamon assured. “Cain’t let these low-lifes off easy. They need time ta think on what they done a’fore we send ‘em on ta meet their Maker.” Gut’s eyes lit up. “Want me ta raw-ball the bastard, sir?” And Horace suggested, “Or’se how ‘bout I run the rifle barrel brush down his pecker hole like we done ta that fella from Pulaski? Never heard a man scream like that, no sir!” Eamon contemplated options, stroking his chin as if he had a Van Dyke. “Naw, don’t seem to me that that’s festive enough.” “Festive?” Tucker questioned. “I want this fella jumpin’. Don’t like his face, I guess.” Eamon turned to Gut. “You got anything in the traps? “Yeah I do, Mayor. Caught a possum couple days ago. Was savin’ him fer kabobin’ on the grill.” “So it ain’t et in a couple days?” “No sir. Wanted ta git some fat off it so’s the meat ain’t too marbled. You know how greasy that possum fat can be.” Eamon nodded, and said with finality, “Fetch the critter.” Horace grinned. “Box job, Mayor?” “Yep. Get it. It’s time we done kicked this night up a notch.” Gut and Horace departed, to return moments later. Gut hefted a large cage trap of the type animal-control crews used to catch creatures the size of, say, large racoons. This trap, however, contained a fat, saw-toothed, two-foot-long possum. The animal did not look happy. Horace brought in a big metal box with a sliding screen on top. Tucker elucidated, “Dandy idea, Mayor. Box jobs always been one’a my favorites. Ask me? It’s kind’a, well, distincteriv.” “That it is,” Eamon agreed. “And festive.” Then he pinched the cheek of Dutch, who remained shivering and gagged on the table. “Know what a box job is, boy?” Eamon waited, for effect, even though the drug dealer could by no means answer the question. “No? Thought not. Well, be patient an’ we will enlighten ya...” As if hosting a seminar, Horace held the box up, looking through the screen, then he angled the box over Dutch’s face so that he, too, could look through the screen. At the bottom of the metal box was a hole, roughly four inches in diameter. Horace was grinning into that hole in order that Dutch get a foreboding glimpse of Horace’s face. “Peek-a-boo, I see you!” Horace enthused. Dutch mewled through his gag. Naturally, the question foremost on Dutch’s mind would be this: What’s that hole there for? Eamon clapped his hands several times, the way a basketball coach might, to offer confidence to his team. “Git to it, boys. I just know yawl’ll make a dandy job of it. Let’s git this ‘un done early so’s we can have us a few more beers.” “You got it, Mayor!” one of the brothers said. First, Tucker unbuckled Dutch’s jeans and pulled them down, and then pulled down Dutch’s briefs (which, interestingly enough, had prints of Sponge Bob on them). After this, Horace placed the metal box over Dutch’s groin. And after this? Both men reached into the box and began the task of pulling Dutch’s horror-shriveled genitals through the hole at the bottom of the box. “Dick and nuts, boys. Dick and nuts,” Eamon urged. Dutch’s eyes raged over the gag as Horace and Tucker continued to manipulate his genitals. Horace gave the shrinking penis a good stretch, to afford some length. Tucker caged both testicles in his fingers and pulled as if they were two persimmons in a small rubber bag. Both grinned at their duties, and neither batted an eye at handling another man’s genitals. Clearly, they had done this more than a few times in the past. Eventually they both withdrew their hands. Meanwhile, in the cage, the captive possum waddled desperate circles, hissing, and bearing its formidable sawblade-like teeth. “In ya go, fella!” Gut said, and slid the wire door open, tilted the cage, and-- plop! When the possum slid from the cage into the metal box, Clyde quickly slid the screen closed. Somewhere a clock could be heard ticking faintly. “The critter eatin’ yet?” Eamon asked Tucker, Gut, Horace, and Clyde all glanced inquisitively into the box. “Naw, Mayor,” Tucker answered. “He just snufflin’ around fer now.” The possum’s feet were heard clicking on the box’s metal floor. The tempo and tenor of this sound was quite interesting, and slow, not frantic. It seemed, in some introspective sense, to denote speculation on the part of the enclosed animal. And then– Dutch’s body bucked against his bonds, and his face twisted into a rictus of unspeakable, incomprehensible, and unfathomable agony. His shrieks through the gag sounded like a big dog trying to bark through a muzzle. Then Dutch’s bucking gravitated to outright convulsions. And from the box, now, wet, deliberate eating sounds could be heard. Tucker, Gut, Horace, and Clyde all howled in glee as Dutch’s body agonized on the table, his back arching, his heels and fists thumping, and all the while, of course, he continued to communicate his experience through soul-upheaving screams through the gag. “That’s the spirit, son,” Eamon said, patting the drug dealer on the shoulder. “Bet that puts some spark in yer day, huh?” “Hungry li’l bugger, I’ll say that,” Gut observed “He went fer the nuts first, Mayor!” exclaimed Horace. Eamon nodded. “They usually do, boys, they usually do.” The grim cornucopia of sight and sounds in that barn (the yellowish glow of dim, overhead bulbs; the four identical-looking brothers, grinning delightedly down into the box, the bound, gagged, and convulsant Dutch on the table; and then simply the box itself) might best be described as maniacal or even satanic; and all of this was effectively augmented by the grating, machine-like eruptions from the captive’s throat. “Atta boy, Mr. Possum!” Clyde cheered. “Eat up all’a his junk!” And Tucker: “‘Tis a tad funny the way his nuts crunched whiles they’se were being et.” “Dang straight!” said Horace. “And lookit how the critter’s teeth is goin’‘ through the fella’s dick like it’s a blammed hot dog!” “Yeah, brother!” Gut added, “but a real little hot dog!” and then all four brothers exploded into laughter so raucous it completely obfuscated the drug-dealer’s lurching screams. “Come on over’n take a look, Mayor,” Tucker invited. “You’re missin’ all the fun!” “Naw, boys,” Eamon declined the offer. “I’se seen my share’a dicks get et. Believe you me.” Finally, after an excruciating stretch of moments, Dutch’s screams ebbed away, and his body went limp. “Looks like this drug-dealin’ trash either up’n died or passed out cold,” Tucked ventured. “But we shore made his day!” Gut celebrated. No more noises came from the box. “The critter done yet?” Eamon asked. Tucker nodded through a big grin. “He just lapping up blood now, Mayor.” “No more meat left ta eat!” said Horace. And Clyde: “I say he made short work’a this fella’s peter!” “T’was short work ta begin with!” Horace had to add, and then came more uproarious laughter. When Gut finally took the box away, a ragged, bright-scarlet flesh-crater occupied the area of space that had formerly hosted Dutch’s genitals. Were one to glimpse the possum, however, the animal would be seen as sated, content, and with a very bloated belly. “Get him back in the cage,” Eamon instructed. “Give him a couple days ta shit it all back out ‘fore we get ‘im on the grill. I don’t much take ta the idea of eating possum meat that been nourished on a drug-dealer’s cock and balls.” “Dang straight, Mayor,” Gut observed. “‘L’il fella’s breadbasket is full up.” Gut carried the box out of the main sector of the barn. Tucker, meanwhile, rummaged through wooden shelves laden with tools. In no time, he grasped the well-used power drill fitted with a 3-inch hole-saw. “Now, Mayor?” Eamon thumbed his suspender straps. “Yeah, I reckon there ain’t no better time than the present.” With nonchalance, Tucker revved the hole-saw, mashed his big hand down on Dutch’s face, and applied the saw to the middle of the top of the man’s head. “There ya go!” Horace celebrated. “Yeah, Tuck!” Clyde urged. “Open that piece’a shit’s coconut right up!” “Remember,” Eamon instructed. “Don’t muscle it, son. Let the saw do the work, then ya get yerself a much finer cut.” Amid the cataclysmic grinding sound, it was actually with finesse that Tucker let the saw-bit sink a millimeter at a time into the top of the captive’s skull. Some ill-smelling smoke rose from the action as the sound of steel sawteeth cutting through bone held steady. Eventually the revving sped up and changed pitch; Tucker released the drill’s trigger and pulled the bit out. “Dead solid perfect,” Eamon approved. When Tucker had removed the saw-bit, a perfect disc of scalp and bone came out with it. “That’s the ticket,” he said and gave his crotch a squeeze. “My dick’s dancin’, it is.” Clyde gave his own crotch a similar squeeze. “Ya know, much as I like ganderin’ a nekit gal, I gotta say there’s sumpthin’ about watchin’ a head get hole-sawed that make me even hornier.” “Amen to that,” Eamon said. “And lookit!” Gut exclaimed in a manner that was like rejoicing. All the other men looked wide-eyed at the Dutch’s body. The arms and legs minutely shivered. The man was not quite dead. “Hot dog!” Horace enthused. “The drug-dealin’ little shit is still kickin’.” “‘Tis a rare treat,” Eamon intoned. “Don’t happen often but when it does, it’s like a blessing. I think the word is tenacious.” “What’s that, Mayor?” Clyde asked. Tucker scratched his head. “Yeah, sir, I cain’t say I knows that fancy word.” “Tenacious, boys. This fella here be proof as ta how tenacious the human body can be. One time I read how some fella workin’ construction fall off a four-story building and gots hisself impaled on a piece’a rebar. Mind you, it go in his asshole, cross his body, and come out his shoulder, and the motherfucker lived. Was fine’n dandy in a week, ‘n’fact. Same thing here, boys.” He patted the shivering man on the shoulder. “This fella done got his dick eatin’ off, then he get a hole cut out’a his skull, and he’s still alive. Yes, sir. That’s what we call tenacious.” Tucker fell into thoughtful reminiscence. “Oh, yeah, Mayor. Couple years ago, when you was out on yer deer hunt, me’n Clyde was drivin’ back from Crick City and see this colored gal on the road with a flat tire. You ‘member this, Clyde?” Clyde paused to take his mind back, and started at the recollection. “Yeah, yeah, that colored gal from Warshington Dee Cee with that fancy li’l foreign car. And tits?” He whistled. “Hail, yeah. A big-titter and a half this one was, Mayor,” Tucker went on with his tale. “Tits stickin’ out’a her fancy dress like to knock down a fuckin’ brick wall. But anyways we pull over an’ offer to help change her tire, and dang if’n it weren’t the strangest thing. Instead of sayin’ thank you, this feisty bitch pull a gun on us–” “A gun you say?” Eamon asked, surprised. “Yes, sir, a big ass revolver she pull, and then she start talkin’ real nasty and mouthin’ off ‘bout how she heard all about us backwoods crackers’n how all we do is drink moonshine and rape women’n beat ‘em up and what not, and sayin’ if we try any’a that with her she’ll show us what fer.” Eamon’s brow furrowed. “Well I hope you boys didn’t call her no racial slurs. I know I teached ya better’n that. All folks is equal, whether they from the hills or the cities, or white or black or Injun or Chinaman.” Tucker seemed aghast. “Aw, no way, Mayor, you know we ain’t like that one bit. Only folks we look down on are drug-dealers, theefs, and dumb blondes.” “Good boys,” Eamon said. “So’s what happened then?” “Like I was sayin’, she were waving that gun ‘round, sayin’ she was gonna give us what fer–called us rednecks, too, if that don’t beat all–and yellin’ ‘bout how she gonna fill us full’a holes. So’s we just shrug and tell her that ain’t no way to talk ta two fellas offerin’ ta help but if that be the way she feels, we’ll just be on our way, so me’n Clyde we just mosey on back to the truck.” Clyde was getting riled (and squeezed his crotch a few times). “Yeah, Mayor, we done just like ya told us, don’t start nothin’ and there won’t be nothin’, and just ‘cos she talk shitty ta us don’t mean we’se justerfied in pullin’ a ruckin’ on her. Ain’t nothin’ but words, ya know?” “That’s right, boys. Punishment need to fit the crime,” Eamon said. “Yes, sir, that’s just what we was thinkin’,” Tucker went on, “but ‘fore we can even get back to the truck and leave, she start mouthin’ off again.” Eamon chuckled. “Just like a city gal. Think they’re all superior-like just ‘cos they’se from the city and hill folk ain’t nothin’ but a bunch’a bumpkins. High-falutin’ a lot of ‘em is.” “Well, this gal I’se talkin’ ‘bout was high-falutin’, all right, and her talk get downright mean when we was walkin’ away, sayin’ we’se just a bunch’a fat dirty rubes probably cain’t count ta three, and how we ain’t fit ta pick the...Clyde? What she say?” “She say we ain’t fit ta pick the pebbles out’a her tires,” the brother replied, “and we’se so dirty we could kill flies on a shit-pile by our stink.” “Yeah, Mayor, and then–then she yell back at us just as we’re gettin’ in the truck, ‘Yeah, just like a cracker to run away, you pussies ain’t nothin’ but a bunch’a white trash hillbilly cowards!’ she say and then–then–” “Then,” Clyde eagerly stepped it, “She up’n take the cake when she throw her head back’n laugh and say how our daddy must’a beat off in our mouth ever day when we was tots ‘cuz he were so poor he couldn’t afford baby food, and then–then–” Tucker’s expression darkened. “Then, sir, she say our mama suck dog dicks.” “Boys, ya showed great restraint tryin’ to walk away from that,” Eamon said, arms crossed, “but when they start talkin’ ‘bout your mama... All bets is off.” “Yes, sir, after I start up the truck, I’se pop it in reverse and back right over that dirty mouth cooze.” “I’ll bet that put a damper on her bad talk,” Eamon said with a rare smile. “That it did, Mayor. Broke both her legs, it did. We throwed her in the back, then hook her fancy car up to the hitch and haul it to Drucky Dehenzel’s shop, then–ta make a long story short–we take her screamin’ to high Heaven into Drucky’s garage, and I don’t gotta tell ya that we three had ourselves one hell of a header, we did.” “Yes sir!” Clyde hooted. “We fuck that big-tit bitch’s head twice each, and then we’se have a few beers and spend the rest’a the day takin’ that car apart so’s Drucky can sell the pieces to his people in Huntington. And ya know what, Mayor?” “Tell me, son.” “At night fall we’re fixin’n ta bury the bitch’s body but–no! No, lie, Mayor. She were still alive. Runned over, legs broke, and head humped hell for leather by three horny fellas.” “Tenacious,” Eamon said, impressed. “Gals often is even more so than dudes.” Clyde was nearly out of control in the lusty recollection, rubbing his crotch now with vigor. “But that ain’t the hole story, Mayor. See, just as we’se marvelin’ ‘bout how this city gal was still kickin’, the back door open and who walks in but Spud Kline.” “Oh yeah,” Eamon acknowledged. “Tater Kline’s boy. Poor Tater, he die’a dick cancer years back when you alls were little, but ole Tater? Had the biggest dick in town, twelve inches and then some. That poor fucker could entertain the whole bar all night long with his dick. He’d git it hard and flip a quarter clear across the room, could flip beer mugs too, or pop a peanut in his mouth. Hell, he’d lay out on the damn bar with that foot-long boner stickin’ up straight as a flag pole, and all the gals would play ring toss with funnel cakes.” “Yeah, well, see, sir, his son, Spud Kline got a pecker on him probably longer–” “‘Tis fourteen inches,” Tucker informed. “They’re measurin’ it all the time.” Eamon whistled. “Now that’s a dick that means business.” “It shore is, Mayor,” Clyde went on, “and he meant some business that night he walk in to Drucky’s. He look over’n see we been havin’ a header and just the sight of it make his giant dick hard as a rock. Could see it growin’ in his pants–” “Thought it would bust out!” Tucker remarked. “Damn near did, I say. So we tell him, ‘Go ahead’n tear yourself off a piece, Spud. She still alive,’ and Spud he don’t say nothin’, he just drop his pants, grabs those big titties, and sinks his wood right in. Hail, even when he hit rock bottom, it look like his dick weren’t but halfway in. And he pound away on that city tramp and each time it go in, her feet kick up and her hands fly in the air, and Spud, even once he had his nut, she were still jerkin’ ‘round on the table.” “‘N’fact,” Tucker added, she didn’t up’n die till he pull his dick all the way out–” “And, and!” Clyde couldn’t say fast enough, “I swear when he done so, it sound like a cork poppin, and then all that nut pour out’a her head like milk out a pitcher, yes sir!” “And the moral of the story, boys,” Eamon added a finish of wisdom, “ain’t only that our God given bodies are tenacious but also that sometimes the most just way ta teach someone the error of their ways is?” “The hard way,” all four brothers said in unison and broke into a round of laughter. “Now git with it, boys,” Eamon cracked, and gestured the still-quivering Dutch. Tucker bulled up first, pants already down, erection already bobbing, and–one, two, three– Started humping away.
Joined: Tue Jan 17, 2006 3:35 am Posts: 483 Location: UK
Woot?
Goddamn that's awesome. Not that I read it, I just can't do that to myself. It would be like getting myself all primed up and then settling back for edging. But just knowing that it's out there and getting done, well that's just all sorts of cool. So far as I know this will be a Bloodletting Press book right? By good old Larry Roberts. It'll sure be good to see some BLP Edward Lee make it out into the world. Things just ain't the same without BLP Edward Lee books. But whatever the case and whoever the fuck publishes this bad boy I'll be getting a nice fat stack.
But I do so very much hope that the limited hardcover sees the light of day before Deadite start slinging out a paperback everywhere. That's just the snob in me though... he's small and I don't feel him much but every so often he lets me know he's still there.
I did promise it to Larry quite a while ago, then came my 2-year-plus hiatus from riting when I was taking care of my mother and doing her estate. But I'm hoping very much Larry still wants to do it. It's good to get back into the redneck way of things!. Thanks much to all of you for your generous words!
Joined: Tue Jan 17, 2006 3:35 am Posts: 483 Location: UK
There's no way Larry would turn away now. I mailed him a few months ago asking about it and he still seemed dead keen on it, it would give him a chance to blow the dust of Blood Letting Press and get back to putting out that good shit. I ain't saying that the Arcane Wisdom he puts out ain't good... but it just ain't siction, so it ain't my bag.
Has it been 2 years? Goddamn, that's weird, as it was about 2 years ago that I took a break from reading horror. I've just started getting back into it over the last few months and I thought I hadn't missed much. So now that you're back writing and I'm back reading then the world is alright again for some good times.
Joined: Fri Jan 06, 2012 12:50 am Posts: 110 Location: California
That's brilliant. Loving the idea of institutionalizing headers, sort of a deeply macabre version of the depraved back-country town from that old Nothing But Trouble movie. So good to see that patented Lee hick-speak again, as well.
Can't wait until the book comes out!
(side note: I've always loved how the violence in your books doesn't come off as sexist, just the act of depraved folks. The guys often getting it just as bad dispels the 'wank fodder' school of pooh-poohing extremely violent horror)
_________________ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts
Joined: Thu Aug 05, 2010 8:16 am Posts: 154 Location: St. Johns, MI
Damn. I wanna read this whole but my writing class is about to start. I have a friend I worked with until I recently quit to start my internship who I introduced to your stuff. We used to quote Header at work, and were discussing the Bighead movie a lot. I need to remind him to get an account so he can read this. Great work as usual!
Tony Beals
_________________ "What?Is man merely a mistake of God's?Or is God merely a mistake of man's?"-Frederick Nietzsche
Joined: Sat Mar 05, 2011 5:29 am Posts: 317 Location: Cheshire/UK
Just had a flick through Header 2 again the other day. Some awesome illustrations. That story is up there with my all time favourites. Not just in terms of Lee books, horror in general.
Joined: Fri Jan 06, 2012 12:50 am Posts: 110 Location: California
Trying not to reread this every time I get antsy for the new book is hard. Don't want to completely spoil that part for myself when the book comes out.
_________________ He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts
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