Contributor: Anna-Jane Johnson

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I’ve got a question.

What do you do
When your genre of choice,
The one that was all you wrote about
As a hormonal little middle schooler
And socially inept freshman
And clinically depressed young woman,
Suffers from a reputation so tarnished
That you know it’d be better to give up on it
And write something that people actually
Give a shit about?

”Of the moonless nights they are kings,
darkness is their kingdom.
Carrying death and sowing terror.
the dark Vampires fly
with great suede wings
ready not only to do evil...
but to do even worse.”

That’s from a silent film called ‘Les Vampires’.
I used to whisper that monologue to myself
As I walked along the streets of Grand Haven after dark,
Snowflakes melting on my cheeks as I
Imagined what it would be like if Anne Rice’s Lestat
Lurked in the shadows of the suburban enclaves.

Sleepy little town on the Lake Michigan waterfront?
Yes.

A slice of Christian Reform Americana?
Yes.

Looks like more of a bloodsucker haven
Than Forks, Washington ever could,
Especially in the spring when the fog rolls in
And the place looks like a Lovecraftian paradise?

Hell yes.

But then the words of my mentor,
The one whose voice rings in my head
Whenever I so much as think about writing about my leeches,
Taunts me from all directions -

”No one will take you seriously.
Vampire stories kill time
That could be spent writing something of substance.
Nothing more.”

He might as well just go ahead and say
That vampire stories are for hacks who want
To write their own porn.
He’s got to be thinking something to that effect.

And of course,
There’s all the Twatlighters who demand Cullen Clones,
Glaring when I yawn and say,
”Eduardo WISHES he was cool enough
To rock that James Dean Jacket.
He can go suck Nosferatu Dick for all I care.
That emo son of a bitch doesn’t even have fangs.”

Vampires are supposed to be scary.
They’re analogies for plague and sexual predators.
They don’t feel bad for killing, they have no soul,
And they don’t fucking sparkle.

That novel I’m writing?
The one that my friends and comrades
Are always gushing about?
Begging for new chapters of?

Eddie St. Clair.
The character was always a snarky writer.
But do you want to know what he was originally?
Before I was told to put the kibosh on the leeches?

He was going to be a vampire.
The kind who adores his gallows humor
And who isn’t above having his victim of choice
Snort a few lines before fang meets neck.

His hunting grounds were nightclubs.
He’d stalk the place until he found
A sufficiently intoxicated young lady
Who also happened to be on the rag.
His proudest conquest – both vampiric and sexual -
Was a nun in a confessional.

He was going to be the vampire Hank Moody.

Now he’s mortal.
He’s a writer who went crazy.
He’s Sylvia Plath with a cock
And the plot’s become so damn trite,
I might as well be writing
For a Victorian penny dreadful.

Eddie’s dad, Crazy Doctor Julian,
Was going to have a spine and a taste
For Type O with a shot of absinthe.
Eddie’s wife was going to be a Prozac-addled Ophelia,
Driven to the madhouse when no one believed
That the man she married had become a monster.

There was going to be a gay vampire
Married to a Mormon woman
In what may or may not have been a ‘Fuck You’
Directed at Stephenie Meyer.

Bereft of all hope,
A broken and bloodthirsty young woman
Was going to crumble into dust
As sunrise hit the Grand Haven pier,
The lyrics to Tweaker’s ‘Crude Sunlight’
The last thing to cross her mind
Before the first UV rays of the day
Burnt her brain to ash.

Werewolves congregated
At the Morning Star Café.
Notes left in Loutit Library books
Would put evil spirits to rest.
There was a St. Clair family crypt
Where Eddie’s cult following
Would make a wish and leave a lipstick stain,
Kissing epitaphs in zealous reverie.

Back in the days when I imagined
That there truly was something lurking in the shadows,
My hometown didn’t seem so damn boring.

But all that’s gone now.

Vampires,
As my nearest and dearest are fond of telling me,
Are young adult paperback fodder.

I can’t completely disagree.

But regardless.

Abandoning the Grand Haven Coven
Feels like I’m betraying my own children.

I don’t know what to write anymore.
I’m out of my element,
My writing’s giving off death rattles,
And fuck all if I can find the pulse.

- Thursday, February 16th, 2012.


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Anna-Jane Johnson is a previously unpublished writer of supernatural smut and bitter snark. She is currently working on a novel about a poet who goes through a nervous breakdown, tentatively titled ‘Detox’, and trying to survive suburban hell.

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Author: Anna-Jane Johnson

Contributor: Warren Danbarb

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He screwed the warrior maiden right there on the cliff. She was barely clad in her bear skin armour. He thrusted and pounded. She was otherwise engaged, she was focusing on the coming onslaught. She looked up quickly from her vantage. He took the cue and pulled two machine guns from behind him and sprayed the purple fuckers full of lead. They crumpled and she came, socketing his cock deep inside. She closed her eyes in pleasure. He opened his eyes, and traced the fan above. He was sprawled on top of his bed. He reached in a drawer next to him and pulled out the cheap bottle of vodka. His cock was raw and his ass sore. It had happened since he was fourteen, and lent towards a fondness for Hulk comics. It came and went. It was more than a dream, he could feel everything as real as the vodka pouring down his throat. The thing that really got him was he was the woman, the bear skin vixen with an insatiable taste for cock and blood. He laid there alone, wondering when it would happen again. That's why he stayed to himself and couldn't hold down a job. He took another slug off the bottle. Closed his eyes and waited.


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Warren Danbar was raised in Missouri on junk food and Sci-Fi. He's had a fondness for unproductive writing since high school. He finds himself in rolling metal boxes too often, and in front of a blank page too little. When avoiding those two things he likes to ride bikes.

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Author: Warren Danbarb

Contributor: Edward T. Keller

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Whenever I decide to take a flight over the city with the gray pigeons I get undressed and crouch on the windowsill, the wind tickling my sagging genitalia, the cars and pedestrians below fondling my nipples. Or is it me doing that?

But every time I do this, the bosomy, sturdy lady that inhabits an apartment right across the street plops a leg on her windowsill and starts shaving it with elaborate queenly movements. She meets my gaze and smiles an oily smile, making me want to tremble and gnaw on things.

Today it started to rain. Cats, dogs and hedgehogs splattered on pavements and car roofs, bringing down old ladies and the cats and dogs that were on the street at the time. I saw a cat fall on a cat and kill it.

The lady in the window across the street yelped and her leg also fell downwards. She must have cut herself while shaving.

The plump leg fell for eternity, ripples running through the cellulite in direction opposite to the fall. Then it landed on another walking leg and killed it.

Then a granny fell from a lower window and fell on another granny, smashing through her umbrella and killing her stone dead.

The sky was now clouded over; the temperatures fell and my balls shriveled up.

Alas, my pigeon friends, this could only mean that November is just around the corner.


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Author: Edward T. Keller

Contributor: Matthew Wilson

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Mary Kelly knew she was in trouble. Nothing new there but this time it was bigger. Worse.
The autumn of terror was almost over, now a winter of hard ship was coming fast as Stephenson`s rocket.
She needed money, or a way out. She`d waited in the ten bell`s pub for the right person two weeks running straight. Not perfect but close in build and hair colour. She took pity on the young prostitute, Annie - typical story, abusive father, absent mother - promptly bought her some drink and invited Ms homeless back to her digs.
Joe Barnett wouldn`t like it as he was main bread winner but ever since the arguments she cared little for what he said.
She was little then six months younger then Mary, her hair not quite as red and nose a might squarer but in time no one would know. History would forget such a silly name as Jack.
People popped their head out the window shouting as Mary and Annie staggered into Miller`s court blaring out at a hundred decibels a very groggy re-edition of "When I was young I took some flowers to my mother`s grave."
Mary took an immediate liking to the girl, it was a song her mother was fond of in grimy Cork. Mary had never had anything to her name, everything second hand, fit only for the tip. Yes, she liked her. She still she felt guilty.
Everyone said Mary was big hearted, she thought nothing of giving the girl the last bite of her apple. The sleeping draught inside put her out in moments.
Mary hoped it was fast, she`d hate to think she might hurt her, that she might be awake when what she did next happened. She had been so full of happiness, laughter. She had only a moment, maybe less to scream as Mary pulled the blade from under her stained mattress and slit her throat.
She started on the face first, took her time taking apart her Roman nose, her cheeks and mouth that would tell no secrets.
This had to look right, the work of a mad man, she cut the heart out and threw it on the fire. It emitted a bizarre simmering smell. Mary wiped her lip, wondering when she had cut herself and realised she was drooling. The heart exploded, showering her in vile, red, fatty juice.
Poor girl, so sweet and trusting.
But Mary was desperate, she owed the man two grand, not to mention being months behind in rent, she`d have to work the streets for ten years to pay it all back. If Mary Kelly died, all account`s were closed.
But Mary was twenty five, she loved life. Suicide wasn`t the thing even though the name holder had to die. Who`d have thought tearing up a body could be so noisy? She couldn`t be sure Miller`s court was asleep but she couldnt chance it. She had crossed the line.
No going back.
She started singing again, a little louder then before, wondering how butchers with stood the terrible rips of muscle and sinew as she rolled up her sleeves, meticulously de-fleshing the girl.
Of course, Whitechapel Jack would deny the killing when he was caught, but who could ever trust a pscyho? London was dead to her, no heaven at the best of time`s with the ripper about, staying round was walking on a fine line. Most of her friends were dead.
Long Liz, dark Annie, those that stayed would surely fall under his blade, the mad mad seemed to have a personal vendetta none but the noose would deter.
Mary had only ever had one good thing, her mothers dress, a long black gown, the dream of Irish ladies. Mary had never asked mother where she`d gotten it, she`s always had amazingly light fingers, she removed her blood stained dress and lay it carefully on the flames so it would not catch the carpet.
Mom`s dress fitted like a charm.
She still had it.
Still humming mother`s lullaby, she locked the door behind her as she left, cupped her hand to her mouth and shouted, "Oh, murder!"
This time next week, Jack would be rotting in New gate and she`d be sipping cocktails in Cork. Yes, history would forget.
Jack the ripper?
Such a silly name.


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Matthew Wilson, 29, is a UK resident who has been writing since an early age and recently these stories have escaped to magazines and ezines such as literary lunes and static movement.

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Author: Matthew Wilson

Contributor: Lusty

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Masturbating sure did sound nice for Kandy (as her stripper friends called her.) Boy, are these nails nice, she thought. They were acrylic, with a salmon pink on them with rainbow poke-a-dots complimenting the excitingly bright color. Sharp didn't explain the profuse acuity of them. A dull poke to the pupil would be menacing. She considering doing that when she thought about her mudflap (as she liked to call him) ex-boyfriend, Tim. He sure was an asshole.
She started off lightly rubbing her crotch thoroughly through her skin-tight jeans. After a bit of foreplay, she ripped them off. She could see lacerations from her jeans on her skin. She leaned back in her half-way torn apart Laz-e Boy recliner that Mr. Mudflap destroyed in a drunken rage. She rubbed herself through her panties and indulged in the wonders of masturbation.
Her panties were soaking wet by the time she slipped them off. Once they were around her ankles, she dug deeper, getting every crevice inside her vagina and rubbing her clit rapidly. She moaned and hollered; she was thankful that she didn’t have any neighbors, the old fucks would probably tell her to stop the rub session.
She was in ecstasy; it felt better than any man could make her feel. Just to think, she had the ultimate pleasure device attached to her. She fingered herself for minutes, hoping that it would never end.
That’s when she heard a snap! That came from her crotch area. She felt a sudden, sharp pain inside her pussy. She withdrew her wet hand from her vagina and noticed she was missing a nail. There was a miniscule spot of blood next the absent nail. She soon realized that it was from her vagina, rather than the fact that her nail was torn off.
The pain kicked in every second that the nail was in her vagina. She could feel that it was sticking straight up, piercing the upper-region of the pink cave. I just had to pick the longest, sharpest ones. She thought, while holding her pussy.
She squeezed, nothing came out. She then knew that she had to dig in deep and retrieve it before it destroyed her clitoris. She shimmied her hand inside, feeling around. The little fuckers deep she though. She could only feel it with the top of her finger.
Every time she moved, it mutilated the back of her vagina further. She knew that there was no chance of just letting it slide out because it was stuck in the top and bottom of her pussy. She had to grab it.
She shoved her hand in further then she ever thought was possible. It was the strangest feeling, very unnatural. She poked and prodded every small space in her originally air-tight vagina. She started to gag, almost to the point of puking, partly from her hand completely in her vagina and the other part because it was wet, like a cave.
At last, she grabbed the dread nail. It was slimy to the point where she thought it could have been a second clitoris or some such absurd thing. She grabbed it with her index and middle finger. As she was pulling it out, it ripped the top and bottom of her vagina in a straight line. It was the most painful thing she had ever felt.
The goddamned thing was completely red, no pink or pretty designs were visible. She ran to the bathroom and washed her hands (using extra soap.) She threw the dreaded nail in the garbage and did her best to clean every inch of blood out of her vagina so it wouldn’t clot. As she was doing so, she looked at her hand. There was no nail on her middle finger. She sat down and wept, and her vagina did the same.


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I'm a not very known writer that generally writes about taboo topics. If you want to contact me, send me an email to 'Impgardens@yahoo.com' (:

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Author: Lusty

Contributor: Lusty

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Being a lesbian was so nice for Amber; she didn't have to worry about stretching her vagina just to get laid, she didn't have to worry about the cancerous beings called men, and most importantly, she got to indulge and partake in the beauties that make women.
She got ready in her small suburban house for a big night out with her girlfriend Zina (or "partner" as those fucking media moguls call it.) They planned on going to a strip club called 'Cumming Attractions'. It was surprisingly nice despite what the porn-ish name suggests. Zina was a dancer there but she didn't have work that night.
Amber brushed her red hair thoroughly. It fell dancingly down onto her milky shoulders. Zina walked in, grabbed Ambers tits from behind (in a pedophile way) and told her how ravishing she looked. They kissed and Amber brushed Zina's hair as well. She brushed every strand, including the essential pink, stripper highlights.
They left a few minutes later and arrived at Cumming Attractions. Amber's favorite dancers were dancing that night: Elly, Giselle, and Sevena. She made petty attempts at fucking Elly, but it never went through because she found the all-mighty Zina. The night she saw her dancing, she was sliding up and down on the pole in fishnets and in a sexy cop outfit. Her handcuffs dangled around and her shirt was unbuttoned, unveiling her tan breasts (which made Amber practically have an orgasm on the spot.)
Amber did shots at the bar while Elly did her cowgirl dance. She planned on getting pretty faded and having Zina drive her home. I wonder why Zina isn't getting wasted. She thought
Amber shoved 5 bucks down Elly's panties and cheered her one.
"This is great, eh?" Amber asked.
"Yeah, definitely." Zina replied, "hey, listen, I'm going to the bathroom. You should follow." She smiled.
By that point in their relationship, Amber knew that meant they were going to have a nice 'lick session' (as Zina called it.) She followed her into the shockingly clean bathroom. The bathroom was vacant so they automatically started kissing each other everywhere. Zina set her purse down in the stall and they busted into it. Amber began kissing Zina's neck all the way down to her belly button. She started going down on her and she moaned wildly. While she licked up and down rapidly, she saw something in Zina's purse. She soon identified it as a pregnancy test. She quit licking abruptly, and pulled it out: positive.
"What the fuck!" She hollered.
"Babe, babe, babe, come on. It's nothing."
"What do you mean nothing? You're pregnant!"
"I know! I'm sorry!" She started crying. She hugged Amber's head. Her pussy was still out in the open and her breasts were as well.
"You've been fucking people behind my back?"
"No, of course not. I was just drunk one night and some fucking guy picked me up. I don't remember it at all."
"Whatever, I'm going home."
They were silent on the way home. Once they got home they talked about what they were going to do, Zina definitely couldn't dance anymore. They decided that Amber would stay home with baby while Zina (or Leslie now that she wasn't stripping,) would work at her father's business as a secretary or some dull thing.
Amber decided that having a baby might actually be good experience in some way. She may have been too faded to decide for sure. She did know for a fact that it was time to grow up. No more drinking. No more bullshit; Just a simple life with her gorgeous lesbian lover and baby Elenyx or Adrian depending on the gender.
They walked in to the bedroom and continued what they didn't finish. Zina licked Amber up and down. She was in ecstasy . A few minutes later they rubbed each other off until they both were finished and laid down for bed. Amber kept her hand on Zina/Leslie's stomach, thinking about the precious baby.


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I am a not-so accomplished writer who writes about candid subjects such as sex, booze, and the simple lives of simple people.

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Author: Lusty

Contributor: William Clifford

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Paul Ford and I broke into his sister’s house to steal some drugs. She was old now, like 22 or something, and lived with a big guy who worked at Home Depot, but he was never home. Paul’s sister Pauline saw us the second we smashed in the window with a brick, and promptly stuck a kitchen fork into Paul’s arm. I was already drunk from some wine we got from Jim The Perv outside the 24-hour place, so I got extra spooked that Pauline might call my mom.
“I’ll kill you, Paul!”
“I’ll kill you first, Pauline. I’ll fucking kill you!”
“Go for it, faggot!”
Paul did go for it -- yanked the fork from his arm and lunged at his sister. She started laughing and then fell to the ground, the threadless green carpet, probably high, calling him names, and then Paul straddled her and jabbed the fork into his sister’s eye. Blood went onto the ceiling and across my face and I swallowed some. I started crying and gagging; I ran upstairs where I found some hash and a gun. I smoked and got very high very fast, numb hands. I grabbed a pillow and started spitting blood and vomit, not sure where Paul had gone or what had happened to his sister, though I guessed she was dead.
Afterward, sitting and smoking on an unmade bed in a pink room, I noticed a lizard, or an iguana, or one of those things people keep, in its aquarium; I think his name was Todd; I think that's what Paul's sister told me once when we were little. I guess they can live a long time.
Todd arched up like he needed something. I wanted to help, but I wasn’t sure how, so instead I put the gun in my mouth and looked at Todd with this real intense look, like maybe he could help me instead of me helping him, but it seemed like he had gone back to sleep, or whatever lizards do when they just sit there and seem serene and keep growing old, and for a minute, for a little minute, this made me happy.


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Author: William Clifford

Contributor: Robert E. Petras

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His name was Urick, but he called himself the Stomper, and the Stomper was in the woods stomping snakes, one of his callings in nature. Why else would evolution endow some badass with size Double D feet other than kicking punk ass and killing snakes?

He was heeling the head of a two-foot snake with Army surplus boots, snuffing it out like a cheap stogie. It stopped wriggling. The Stomper scooped up the stupid looking snake by its tail and whipped it, flinging the head off, barely missing a dove resting upon a tree branch.

The Stomper pumped a fist and then slid his ass-kicking hand into a back pocket of green canvass pants and pulled out a notebook. He thumbed through his notes: how many punks whose asses he had kicked, their names and ages, the women he had banged and dumped and, finally, the snake ledgers—black snakes, copperheads, racers, rattlers, garters—the pages dotted with hundreds of checks. He scribbled a new entry: “wussy gray brown two-foot, black hourglass on head looking like birthmark by Missy Stewart’s left tit. Missy Snake? No. Pussy snake, no fight in it.”

Pen and notes pocketed he whirled around and tripped on what appeared thick knots of tree roots except at this spot in the woods these rooty things sprouted too far from the trees. “Looks like the hair of some hippie punk I beat the shit out of years ago.” he wrote, and then leafed through his notes, finding a check by “Hippie punk. Knocked him out. Cut off his hair.” “Tangle Wood” he jotted a new entry.

The Stomper stared at the sky, graying as a cloud slid across and swallowed it, casting the forest in complete afternoon shadow.

He stomped into the woods, tallying three more checks next to “Pussy snake.”

The deeper inside the woods he stomped, the denser and broader the patches of tangle wood grew, now woody ponds the Stomper used his size 16 Double D’s like snowshoes to navigate across.

Two more of the pussy snakes and heads checked out of life and checked into his record book.
Like thin ice, the viney tangle wood collapsed to his Double D’s. He tried to pry his feet free, thrusting and tugging, but toppled on his ass. He stared at the gray-brown sky.

The first snake Urick noticed slithered along his wrist, the black hourglass head mark gliding by the luminous digits of his watch. He snapped the snake behind him and then another and another while they swarmed him, and he could feel their collective body heat, warm like an electric blanket, massaging, except where they bit him. He could feel them boring into him, feeding upon his flesh as they bored deeper and deeper. He thrust, kicked and twisted, the tangle wood seeming to bind tighter around his ankles. All he could do was fight, killing as many as he could with his hands, with his teeth, biting several heads off.

They cocooned him, a writhing mass, made him a Medusa from head to foot, some even squirming inside his boots. The front of his shirt was saturated with his spit, his sweat, blood, snake blood and his. Urick could no longer move his arms, not even will his hands to choke. He could see only the blank black cloud in his mind made by the mass of snakes before they bored inside his eyes.

Nothing worked any longer except his mind. At least he could chalk up the kill tally in his mental notebook. He had to have killed six of those little punks, maybe seven. Even eight. But the only thing Urick could see inside his head was a check beside his own name.


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Robert E. Petras is a graduate of West Liberty University and a resident of Toronto, Ohio. His poetry and fiction have appeared in Yesteryear Fiction, State of Imagination, Death Head Grin, Burial Day Books, Phantom Kangaroo and Heyday Magazine.

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Author: Robert E. Petras

Contributor: Richard Osgood

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Ivan Chemalski stands at the center of a blow-up kiddie pool, naked, feet spread, penis erect, defecating in the water. A metallic rendition of The Entertainer cycles over and over from the loudspeaker of an ice cream truck as it approaches, passes, and fades under napping pine trees and languid American flags. Coitus, he calls her, the young Slovakian woman with burlap hair and volcanic skin, who sits in a folding beach chair, fully gowned, feet over the inflated edge of the pool, washing dirt from soil-burdened toes. A glance at the paperback within arm’s-length grasp of fruitful clover, her fingertips callused by fractured asphalt, she anticipates locked doors and drawn shades. Sunrise weighed down by iron skillets and uncharitable destinations serves blood sausage and beets to former transmission assembly workers in dungaree overalls and infertile white t-shirts, and thick-skin widows with dehydrated eyes eat cabbage and ground veal in submissive surrender to the orbital trajectory of dominant genus. Stained water links the two, she and Ivan, in impossible neutrality, a headless allegory of love and a parody of copulation. He masturbates, ejaculates, an orgasm at the endpoint of humanity, at the farthest reaches of pathology—"I am the origin of things," he says. She claps her hands and splashes her feet and sings epic sonnets of mountains and oceans and virtues and sin.


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Richard Osgood lives in a city on a river where the north meets the south. Publication credits include Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Hobart, Dogzplot, Night Train, Mudluscious, among others. He continues to mourn the deaths of Steve Marriott and Syd Barrett.

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Author: Richard Osgood

Contributor: LA Sykes

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Eye eye. Who is this dodgy looking cunt? Suspicious behaviour indeed. Creeping around the alley at this time of night? What the fuck is he wearing? Who does he think he is? Which house is he planning to hit? Time to find out.

Out the back door and jump the fence. Creep up on this thieving fucker from behind and boot him up the arse as he bends over mauling about with the canvas cover sheet on his getaway vehicle. Rip off his silly hat and grab his hair snapping his head back. Crush his bulbous nose with a quick crack. Look him square in his pleading eyes taking in the white beard slowly turning crimson with blood.

"Don't tell me, you're Santa Claus delivering presents for all the boys and girls?" I ask sarcastically.

"Yes, look please I really am S...."

I cut off his driveling bullshit with another backhand slap. Never could stand thieves.

"Shut up scumbag".

Claims he has a heart condition and needs the pills from the glove compartment of his sleigh. Santa with a bad ticker? Too many mince pies and sherry? Nice try.

“No pills for you thief. Picked the wrong street to burglarize this Christmas!”

Degenerate fool keels over playing dead. Very still. Good acting my son.

The vehicle moves beneath its cover so I rip it off and step back in stunned shock. Nine docile reindeer all stare at me with accusing glares. Harnessed to a quaint wooden sledge.

On the seat is a dirty cotton sack that appears empty. With shaking hands I untie the twine and open it. Stardust sprays the air and a kaleidoscope of colour bursts all around me bathing my senses, illuminating the pitch dark and my soul.

Tie it back up and head to the man in red with a thousand apologies on the tip of my tongue. Won’t rouse, no pulse. Shit.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Only one option.

Drag the stiffening corpse into the garden. Quickly strip it and cover the pale flesh with firewood and leaves. Have to bury it in the woods before sunrise.

The suit is miles too big and the crotch smells. Dirty bastard. Least the braces keep the pants up.

Clamber into the driver’s seat and grip the reins. Quick tug gets no response. How the fuck do you drive a sleigh?

‘’Mush you stupid cunts!’’

Realise mush is for huskies and go beet red. Glad nobody was around to witness that.

Whip hard but still these dopy bastards don’t go.

No time to spare. Lean over and kick the nearest one in the arsehole. That did the trick and away we go.

Gonna be a long night.


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LA Sykes is a psychotherapist and published sports writer from Manchester England. Bringing a new voice of musings and satire from the inside.

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Author: LA Sykes