EAT SHIT AND DIE: a comic horror fantasy

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King Mash was not just the premiere food critic of the known culinary universe. He was the food critic’s food critic, the critic every other critic aspired to be, but knew they could never become, and the best they could hope for was to take over the top spot once Mash had consumed his last supper (with all the suggestion of eternal life that implied), fully aware they could never, ever come close to reaching his Olympian heights.
Ah, Olympian Heights. What an apropos description of Mash, for he was not just a petty judge separating the good wheat from the bad chaff. No, he was a god. No, not just any god. He was Jehovah Almighty Himself thundering down his approval and disapproval from atop Mount Sinai. True, Mash may not have looked like Yaweh. His somewhat pudgy physic, hair in a top knot and Charlie Chan mustache was more likely to suggest Bacchus upon first meeting him, but who was going to tell him that?
And, yes, his name was unfortunate. But even here, when he had been given chopped liver, he made fois gras out of it. He incorporated it into his rating system: if he approved of the more than modest repast provided him, he would King the restaurant. But if he didn’t? Oh, cue the wailing and gnashing of teeth, because that meant he would Mash it. But unlike God, the public gleaned onto his every word. So no one was ever Mashed and lived to tell of it and his swath of destruction was as wide as it was deep.
And Mash looked around and said: “It is good to be God”.
But Mash forgot a truth most truthfully true: every god has a gotterdamarung. And Mash was about to be served his. His last supper was about to become his last meal. Continue reading

A REFUGE FROM THE STORM a short story by Howard Casner

If you like this one check out my other story, a sci fi short story, The Starving Artists



               He woke up. No, he jerked up, like someone drowning who finally got some air.
               What the fuck? Where, what…he looked around, but his body sent a bolt to his brain and he frowned from the intense pain he felt and he thrust his arms against his eyes because it was so bright, why was it so fucking bright? Why is there so much fucking…
               And he took a moment, just a moment, just give me a fucking minute here, and then he gently opened his eyes and squinted and looked around…okay, I’m in the car, that’s good, I’ve woken up in my car before, so no, no problem…and he leaned back against the seat and sighed and relaxed and closed his eyes again.
               And then he jerked up again, what was that, five minutes, ten, shit, don’t fall asleep again, you can’t fall…and he again looked around him and, oh, man, not again, I didn’t fucking… and he saw his windshield and it was cracked, okay, that’s not so bad, I can replace that easy, peasy, lemon…and he looked around for more clues, but everything felt a little distorted, I still…I can’t still be drunk, but as his vision focused and he looked ahead of…oh, shit, you’ve got to be joking… Continue reading

THE STARVING ARTISTS: a short story by Howard Casner

No one was shocked when it happened. At the same time, it took them all by surprise.
Rumors had been spreading for some time that something was going to be done. No one knew what exactly, and they only spoke and speculated about it in very low voices and covered their mouths with their hands or whispered into their phones when they did speak about it, because they didn’t want, well, those they didn’t want to know that they were speaking about it, to know that that was what they were doing.
And when it did happen, it didn’t happen overnight at first. But one evening when everyone went to bed, suspecting nothing, though with some sort of inkling at the back of their brain, by the next morning, within eight to twelve hours, it was over. It had been done.
And then it really began. Continue reading