A man-sized mosquito descended on 43rd Street and 7th Avenue amid a warm afternoon. The horrific creature’s presence made me scream. However, my legs, quite inexplicably, could not flee the fearsome scene. Amazing still, I was the only person who noticed the otherworldly invader. So, as a result, I concluded the scenario was a hallucination.
It’s a damp, dreary morning in the bloated intestine of post-Gatsby Long Island and I’m motoring down Wellwood Avenue, past boarded-up storefronts, bound for The Botanist, New York’s finest medical marijuana dispensary. CSNY’s “Teach Your Children” is spewing from my tired car radio and I’m smelling things I haven’t smelled in years. The air is
(Breaking Glass Pictures) dir. Peter Vack “I’m not fucking a fucking sober bitch pussy, and I’m not having sex like a..no…nobody else would have sex with me because how are they gonna do it? This day and age, all y—, the only way you fuck is if you go for a drink with someone.” This
Review by Ben Arzate After a doctor commits a massacre at a hospital in Grenade City, causing it to be abandoned, a skeleton wearing a suit takes up residence in the building. Charlie, a young man who survived the massacre, decides he wants to learn to how to use guns to protect himself and his
by Jeff O’Brien Back in 2002 I was something of a scenester. The term “hipster” wasn’t really being thrown around back then but “scenester” certainly was. Looking back, I suppose it was the same thing. It was a term applied to someone who spent the majority of their nights either playing at rock clubs or
Duncan P. Bradshaw’s Cannibal Nuns from Outer Space is exactly what the title suggests and so much more. Yes, it’s a pastiche of both the demonic possession and nunsploitation genres, but it’s also unlike anything you’ve ever found in book form in the past. As he did with the charmingly cheeky killer vacuum novella Mr.
By The Reverend When I was growing up Vietnam vets were still feeling the sting of the jungle. The government had fucked its bright-eyed boys by sending them out to die in the name of some faceless authority figure’s agenda. To add insult to injury, they’d dumped foul chemicals on their own troops so that
We’ve had all we could take. They have relied on us for more years than we have left on God’s green earth. And we’re sick to death of their demands, the limitations it puts on our own existence. Because that’s all we’re doing now: merely existing. I can’t remember the last time my husband and
by Trebor Elliverf In recent weeks, the Motorist has received an alarming number of letters from our readers, each of them outlining a different grievance they had with our content. In one such missive, a 63-year old single mother named Beverly S. laments the use of vulgarity in our articles. Beverly writes, “I visited your
Written by Bob Freville Illustrated by Brian Glossup