Excerpts from Nice Little Stories Jam-Packed With Depraved Sex & Violence
by Michael Hemmingson

Introduction by Full Force Frank

(Excerpted Segment)

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.


(Excerpted Segment) A: Pik grabs at his face and screams, "It's happening man, oh Jesusfuckingchristmotherfucker it's happening I'm getting THE DISEASE!"

I'm driving. The mention of that word leaves us silent. Pik is seated next to me. Look in the rearview, Nique in back with Bella and Ash, staring nervously at Pik. Pik grabs the rearview and turns it, glares in. He claws at his skin, draws blood. Eyes large: yellow and red and green.

"It's fucken happening," he mumbles.

"You're tripping," I say, looking back to the girls for support.

"Nothing's happening," Ash says, chewing bubble gum like she was a kid. "Yo, Pik, you're okay."

"You're fine," Bella says, sighing.

Nique leans forward, smiling, black hair falling into blue eyes. "Pik, relax. You don't got the disease..."

He does. We all know this.

Pik leans back, still touching his face. "I know it's happening."

He doesn't say any more; neither do we. I just drive. None of us look at the growths that are beginning to appear on Pik's face, the ones he's feeling up, trying to claw out, like Adam's first taste of comprehension.

B: There's a barbarian in the city.

C: We sit in the darkroom and watch the video clip.

A man who looks a lot like Robert Redford strokes his abnormally long phallus. He moves, lifting something that looks like the hem of a dress, inserting his cock. (One of the girls gasps.) The camera pulls back. We see that he has inserted himself into a 4-foot porcelain doll in old-style lace clothing. He lifts the doll, pulls it close, his dick still in it, and begins to dance around as he doll-fucks. There is a look of passion in his chiseled features. He is well-built, blonde hair on chest. There's music, faint, electro-jazz, soft drums, floating synths, a woman's voice singing, "I need you...I neeeeeeeeeeed you...I neeeeeeeeeeeed..." The man dances and fucks, dances and fucks. It's monotonous.

Liq turns the video off, lights on. Pik is still messing with his face. The girls seem agitated.

"What a sick fuck," Bella says.

"Yeah," Liq says, lighting a stogie, "and I want him dead. I want him creamed."

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