Hey, I'm Frank. The people responsible for this book have asked me to write
an intro. The stories in this book are fictional, but this intro is not.
So get out of the literary gore scene and take a brief stroll through the
mad reality of a psycho named Frank.
For those of you who enjoy depravity, I am pleased to inform you that all
the stories in this book contain a good amount of violence, death, abuse,
gore, and psychosis. Perhaps not all 5 in each story, but do not be greedy.
There should be enough to
satisfy the vast majority of you. I, unlike most
of you reading this, am not merely an aficionado of depraved literature.
What I happen to be is a 100% soul dead psychopath destined to go down in
the chronicles of true crime history as an infamous multiple
killer of human
beings. No joke, boys and girls. Although please feel free to laugh if you
possess the ability to find humor in this world. I am a rather grim fellow
because I live in my own world of rage, hate, violence, and death. Unlike
most of you,
I don't visit the arena of human perversity on a harmless fictional
level. I live the reality, 24 hours each and every day, of a 100% soul dead
psychopath. Not out of choice, but due to the fact that my soul was murdered
during my childhood, thanks to
the joint efforts of both my mother and my
father. But I'm sure you don't care about my murdered soul. Why should you?
At this very moment dozens of infants less than 2 weeks old are being taken
out of maternity wards by mothers and fathers who will do their
level best
to equal or exceed the amount of torment that my Mom and Dad inflicted upon
me. I know you do not care and so will relieve your discomfort by plunging
headfirst into the fictional story descriptions that you so eagerly seek.
The first story
in this book is titled Skull-Fuck. Definitely an appealing
title, if you ask me. It deals with group psychotherapy and eyes. Of course
it has a lot of depraved activities in it, but I'm sure you don't want me
to spoil the plot. People say that a human's
eyes are like a mirror into
the soul. That is not really true. But since I have a dead soul, I am sometimes
concerned about how my eyes appear to other humans. Can anyone sense the
infinite evil and limitless rage that exists within me by merely gazing
deeply into my eyes? I think not. Bundy's eyes didn't betray him. Whitman's
eyes didn't betray him. Dahmer's eyes didn't betray him. So why should my
eyes betray me? Still, there are times when I wear dark sunglasses to deliberately
shield my eyes from the
view of my fellow humans. Another fact about my
eyes is that they don't see as well as most eyes. I'm talking visual acuity.
You see, when I was a boy, my mother deliberately tried to blind me. Isn't
that a bummer? She only partially succeeded in her
attempts to rob me of
my eyesight. So now I am only visually challenged, to paraphrase the currently
politically correct vernacular. I am tempted to describe the exact methodology
that Mom employed in her noble efforts to blind me. But space is at a premium,
unlike a child's eyesight. If you truly need to know how Mom committed her
nefarious deed, drop a note to the publisher and your inquiry might be forwarded
to me and I might share the details with you.
Group psychotherapy is another part of this
fictional story so pleasantly
titled Skull-Fuck. I am proud to say that I have never been in group psychotherapy.
I have, however, been in individual one-on-one therapy. You see, when I
was 15 years old, I stabbed my father in the chest. With a knife, in case
you were wondering. I had to spend 9 months in a loony bin. Not my choice,
the presiding judge insisted. Yes, my dear readers, I indeed have been institutionalized.
But only once. And only for 9 months. And only when I was a mere lad of
15. I have not
been back since. In fact, I have never undergone psychotherapy
except during those 9 months when I had no choice. Why, I might even be
just as normal as you guys and gals who purchased this book filled with
fictional stories of depraved sex and violence.
In any event, as you read this story, I hope you will be thinking about
eyes. Their power perhaps. Or their sensitivity, or their vulnerability.
Perhaps you might even think about the fact that some people have a need
to destroy the eyes of their fellow
humans. Heck, my very own mother did,
and that is no fiction.
"Yeah," Liq says, lighting a stogie, "and I want him dead. I want him creamed."
Back to the Nice Little Stories info & excerpts.